


I Saw You In A Dream

by vintagelilacs



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Blood and Gore, Canonical Character Death, Dreamsharing, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-04-28 12:39:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14449461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintagelilacs/pseuds/vintagelilacs
Summary: Dwarves and Hobbits do not share the same afterlife.Bilbo resigns himself to the fact that he'll never reunite with Thorin; not even in death. He'd do well to forget everything that transpired, but acclimatizing to life in the Shire proves difficult when he starts seeing Thorin in his dreams. And as the dreams start to recur, Bilbo learns that Thorin's presence might be more than his subconscious at work.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I saw you in a dream_   
>  _You came to me_   
>  _You were the sweetest apparition, such a pretty vision_   
>  _There was no reason, no explanation_   
>  _The perfect hallucination_   
>  _-The Japanese House_

The carnage from the battle is so great, the very earth seems to be dyed red with blood. Mangled bodies, broken bones, and discarded weapons jut out of the ground like flowers in a macabre garden. 

There are no triumphant cheers from any of the armies; only cries and wails that crescendo into a symphony of grief.

Bilbo watches a dark bird with iridescent plumage pick at the eyeballs of an elf corpse before setting to work on its flesh. The crows, it seems, are the only victors.

Bilbo delves into his pocket, unearthing the gleaming band of metal housed safely within. His hands are so slick with blood—his blood, Thorin’s blood—that he nearly drops the precious metal. When the ring is finally snug on his finger, he begins the trek back towards the Lonely Mountain. He’d rather walk the distance than allow the eagles to carry him. A clot of resentment forms in his chest as he eyes the great birds soaring overhead. He knows it's irrational, but he can't help thinking that if they’d only arrived an hour earlier, the outcome of the battle might have been very different.

On the way to the mountain, he passes more corpses than living people. When he sees the she-elf Tauriel carrying a body in her arms, he pauses. It’s not some nondescript elf whose name he does not know. The body in her arms is short and compact; the body of a dwarf. His throat tightens. It’s Kíli’s body. There’s something so perversely wrong about seeing him without Fíli hanging over his shoulder. Even in death, it seems only right that the brothers should be together.

“If this is love, I do not want it,” Tauriel despairs. 

Never has Bilbo so strongly related to another’s words. He watches unnoticed as she and the Elvenking converse in low tones. 

“Why does it hurt so much?” Tauriel’s long lashes are clumped together with tears. She looks elegant, even with her cheeks damp and glistening. It must be quite a disparate image from Bilbo’s own grief-stricken face. He’s an ugly crier, he’s always known that. Blotchy and red-faced, with swollen eyes and dripping nose. He doesn’t think he’s ever cried harder than he has today. Not even when his own parents passed. Their deaths were a long time coming and they’d lived full, happy lives. And, really, what more could anyone want?

Bilbo tears himself away before he can hear the Elvenking's reply. Erebor seems an impossible distance, especially for someone as small as him. He meanders around fallen bodies, giving them a wide berth when he is able. More than once, his feet catch on discarded armour or body parts half-hidden in the snow. Once he finally reaches it, Bilbo all but collapses on the doorstep of Erebor. 

He removes the ring carelessly. If someone sees him appear out of thin air, what does he care? It doesn't matter. None of it matters. Hot tears cut through the grime and blood on his face, cleaning thin strips of dust away.

He doesn't know how long he lies there, only that by the time the moon has risen, he is no longer alone. The other dwarves of the company gather around him, offering silent comfort and support. Only Óin is unaccounted for, but it's likely the healer is busy treating the wounded dwarves, elves, and humans that litter the battlefield.

"We'll hold the funeral tomorrow," Balin announces, apropos of nothing. 

The air seems to grow denser around them, weighing heavily on their shoulders. 

"It's best to get these affairs over with," he continues. "There is still much to be done." 

Bilbo sniffles. Oh, how he wishes for a handkerchief. Instead he has to make do with wiping his snot on his sleeve. The other hobbits of the Shire would be appalled if they could see him now. 

"Thorin pulled through in the end," Dwalin notes, his voice gruff from disuse. "Not even gold sickness could stop 'im for long."

"Aye," Balin agrees. "I hear that the three of them fought valiantly." 

No one needs clarification on which three Balin is referencing.

Bilbo's eyes finally seem dry, but his blasted nose won't cease it's dripping. “Well," he chuckles, but the sound is dry and hollow, and entirely without mirth. "At least we’ll all meet again one day.” 

A different type of silence bears down, one that is oppressive and stifling.

“Oh, Bilbo.” Bofur's voice cracks. 

He rounds on him. "What? What is it?" 

Balin clears his throat. “I'd assumed you knew. Hobbits and Dwarves don't share the same afterlife.”

"What?" He prays he misheard. He prays his ears are damaged from the aftermath of the battle. All that shouting and clangor of armour and weapons colliding... surely, his hearing's a bit off. 

"When we dwarves pass on," Balin continues, "we're gathered by Mahal and sent into a separate hall set apart in the Halls of Mandos. It's not accessible to the other races." 

And just like that, Bilbo’s heart breaks all over again. 

* * *

The journey back to Bagend is long and uneventful. Gandalf tries to strike up conversation on multiple occasions, but he's largely ignored.

“You’ve done the dwarves a great service, you know,” Gandalf offers on their final night of travel. The old wizard seems to have aged several decades in the period of a few days. His shoulders sit lower than normal, and there are new creases and lines marring his face; imprints of worry and grief. "And with chests of gold and silver, I dare say you'll be the talk of the Shire." 

Bilbo tightens his grip on the reins of his pony. 

Gandalf sighs at his reticence. “His mind was muddled for a time, but I have no doubt Th-” 

“I don't want to talk about him,” Bilbo snaps, but his outburst is born from panic, and not anger. The wizard looks properly chastened at this. He doesn't initiate conversation again. Finally, Bilbo tries to diffuse the tension between him and his old friend. He speaks up in a small, tremulous voice. “I just want to go home.” 

But, really, what Bilbo means is: _I just want to forget._

* * *

Upon reaching the Shire, Bilbo is less than impressed to find that his beloved home has been ransacked by greedy relatives who wrongly assumed him dead. His first day back is spent chasing down his belongings and squabbling with hobbits who don't seem particularly overjoyed to see him hale and whole.

"And who are you?" Lobelia asks when he demands his spoons be returned to him. Those damned Sackville-Bagginses! Bilbo has half a mind to wring her neck. 

“What do you mean who am I?! - You know bloody well who I am!" 

She huffs, without the decency to look evenly mildly apologetic. "I'll have you know I paid a fair price for these." 

"And do you normally buy stolen wares?" He challenges. 

Lobelia is not the only hobbit who's been bidding on his items without compunction. The others congregated around his house shuffle guiltily. 

"This is most irregular," the auctioneer manages after a lengthy pause. "It’s been more than thirteen months since the disappearance. If you are, in fact, Bilbo Baggins and undeceased - can you prove it?" 

"What?" Bilbo asks, incredulous. 

“Oh, well, something official with your name on it would suffice.” The auctioneer adjusts his cravat, clearly flustered by the entire ordeal. 

"Alright," Bilbo concedes. His face is flushing quite spectacularly, anger setting his blood to a steady simmer. He withdraws his contract before bequeathing it to the auctioneer. 

The hobbit examines the contract at length, before finally reaching the line where Bilbo's name is hastily scrawled. “Ah, certainly seems to be in order. Yes, seems there can be no doubt.” He glances up at Bilbo. "Who is this person you pledged your service to? This... Thorin Oakenshield?" 

Bilbo's mouth flies open, ready to berate the auctioneer. What right does he have to utter that name? He is not worthy of even thinking it! Because Thorin... Thorin was so many things. Brave and resilient and stubborn, and his character was worth a thousand hobbits! 

Bilbo swallows the rapidly forming lump in his throat. "He... he was my friend." The words slice at his throat, and he feels as if he's just gargled broken shards of glass. 

Just like that, all the fight leaves him. What does he care about a set of spoons? What does he care about any of it? Turning his back on the other hobbits, he mounts the steps to his home. 

It's been stripped bare, and layers of dust coat nearly every strip of exposed space. Bilbo rights his photographs and reorganizes his bookshelves. He polishes his remaining silverware and checks up on his neglected garden. He restocks his pantries, realizing with a pang that the last time they were properly stocked was before he met the dwarves. How different life would have been had Gandalf not chosen him for the job. How different would he be now? Would the emptiness inside him not exist? Or would it simply be unnoticed?

He can't think about that. It's irrelevant. 

He is no longer the Bilbo Baggins who walks unseen. He is no longer luck-wearer, riddle-maker, web-cutter, barrel-rider, guest of the eagles and friend of the elves. He is simply Bilbo Baggins: hobbit of Bag End. And he'd do well to remember as much. 

Bilbo sets several sausages in a pan to fry and prepares a platter of cheeses and fresh grapes. The sizzle of the pan and the aroma of spices provides a suitable distraction for a time. He busies himself with preparing an extravagant and sumptuous dinner. He warms a pad of butter over the stove (just enough so it's no longer cold) and spreads it over the freshly brought barm cake. The butter seeps into the warm, soft bread. He adds a thin layer of jam over it for extra flavour. 

Before sitting down for his meal, Bilbo gathers honeysuckle from his garden and assorts it in an antique metal vase with a rose wood finishing. He sets out his finest dishes and cutlery, and drapes a napkin over his lap. He eats his meal silently, in a room that seems much too quiet and much too empty. 

Cooking, it turns out, is not as enjoyable when you're only making food for yourself. 

After dinner, Bilbo reclines in his armchair and resumes a half-finished novel that he began reading before being accosted by Gandalf and the company of thirteen dwarves. He makes it nearly to the end before it occurs to him that he hasn't processed any of it. His eyes travel over the words, but don't absorb any of them. Sighing, Bilbo closes the book. For another day, then. 

He supposes it wouldn't be a bad idea to retire early. He hasn't known the comfort of an actual bed in so long. His bedroll wasn't nearly as comfortable, especially not against hard stone or forest floor. He slips on a cotton robe and pulls his blankets up to his chin, eager to rest his head against a veritable army of pillows. 

The hours pass sluggishly. Bilbo twists and turns. Oh, the irony. It seems he's gotten so used to sleeping on the ground that he's unable to relax in an actual bed. Bilbo glares up at the ceiling until his eyelids can no longer keep themselves open. After several more hours of lying awake, exhaustion finally overtakes him. 

* * *

Bilbo's dreams are rarely orderly and easy to follow. He's much more prone to nonsensical dreams without a lick of sense to them. His nightmares were no different. Before partaking in the quest to reclaim Erebor, the content of his nightmares usually revolved around his plants dying and his garden failing. Of course they'd usually be more complicated than that, and wouldn't follow logic at all.

Lately, his nightmares have been very different. He's become accustomed to hearing Gollum's hiss, or Smaug's resonant croon and underlying growl. Orcs and trolls and goblins have intruded upon his normally mundane nightmares, twisting them from distressing to outright horrifying. 

What he sees before him now cannot be construed as a nightmare, but it leaves him just as horrified. 

There is a dwarf hunkered down by patch of flowers. Bilbo can't see the dwarf's face from this angle, but he can descry a familiar head of long, ebony hair shot through with threads of silver. He watches the dwarf's large fingers thumb the leaves and trace up the stems of the lurid flower.

Bilbo's legs tremble as he closes the distance between them, but his voice is miraculously steady. "I never thought I'd see you interested in gardening."

Thorin doesn't startle, as if he sensed Bilbo all along. He turns to peer up at him, his lips quirked in a barely-there smile. "I've learned to appreciate the simple things in life." 

"Little late for that," Bilbo mutters before he can think better of it. He settles down beside Thorin. "Do you even know what those are?" 

Thorin shakes his head wordlessly. 

"They're Rhododendrons."

"They're pretty." 

"They're also extremely toxic." 

Thorin retracts his hand as if he's been burned. 

"...if ingested." 

The dwarf levels him a glare, but he's not able to maintain the scowl for long. "I suppose it wouldn't do me harm here, anyway." 

"No," Bilbo agrees. _On account of the fact that you're already dead._

"I've been wanting to see you for some time," Thorin says solemnly. "I couldn't before. I don't know why, but the way here was blocked." 

Bilbo clutches his chest. His heart aches within its confines. “You’re not real." He's informing Thorin as much as he's reminding himself. He can't allow himself to forget, not even for a moment. He'd only be setting himself up for more heartbreak, and he's not sure he'd be able to handle it. This is a dream, and nothing more. 

A furrow appears between Thorin’s brows. “Am I not?”

“No,” he confirms. His chin wobbles. “No, you’re not.”

The frown wipes clean off Thorin’s face. “Strange how I can be here, talking to you, if I’m not real.”

Oh, Bilbo’s subconscious is a cruel thing indeed. It looks like Thorin. It sounds like him. And yet, it isn’t him. It can’t be.

Bilbo wipes at his eyes. They're dry. Of course they are. He's dreaming, after all. “It's really not that strange.”

“Oh?” Thorin prompts.

“I was bound to dream of you at some point.” Thorin already occupies an unhealthy amount of his conscious thoughts, so it makes sense that he's carved a space in Bilbo’s subconscious, too. "Eru knows I had enough dreams about you on our journey together," he adds as an afterthought. Many of which were admittedly of a rather carnal nature. 

“I dreamt of you too.” Thorin peers at him from under his lashes. 

Bilbo cringes away. _Dreamt._ Past tense. Thorin will never dream again. Not of Bilbo, and not of anything. He will never dream, and the only sleep he'll know is the eternal slumber of death.

“Oh?” Bilbo asks finally. There can't be much harm in humoring the Thorin his mind has conjured. “And just what did you dream of?” 

He scans Thorin's face, cataloguing the faint scars and the single freckle by the side of his nose and the creases at the corners of his deep blue eyes. Bilbo's mind has recreated Thorin to the last detail. He doesn't know if he should commend his subconscious, or curse it. 

“I would dream of you staring at me the way you looked at acorns and flowers and honeybees." Thorin's voice is so soft, it's barely a susurrus of sound between them. 

“And how,” Bilbo bites out, “did I look at them?”

“Like they were something to be treasured.” 

Thorin's words hit him like a punch to the gut. A clamp springs tight around his chest, restricting airflow. Has breathing always been such a difficult feat? He was ill-prepared for the sincerity in Thorin's voice. Being mocked or derided would've been preferable to the fondness present in his tone. Bilbo blinks rapidly. How is he supposed to answer that? 

The next few seconds are a bit hazy. Bilbo remembers trying to reach for Thorin, but the dwarf turns to smoke before he can make contact. His hands sift through empty air, searching for something already lost. 

* * *

Bilbo awakens to a pillow dampened with tears and an unbearable tightness in his throat. Faint tremors wrack his body. To say he's unnerved is a gross understatement. He's never had such a vivid dream before, and he doesn't think he's ever before been able to retain the events of one of his dreams in full. Usually by the time he cracks his eyes open, he only has fragmented remains. 

The dream he just had was unlike anything he's ever experienced. It was more like a visitation; something prophetic and otherworldly. How else could he explain the graphic detail, and the perfect rendering of Thorin's voice and mannerisms? 

"You're being a fool," Bilbo chides. "Setting yourself up for more disappointment." 

Talking to one's self is not the best hobby to undertake if one wishes to appear of sound mind, but the presence of his own voice soothes him. It fills the crushing silence, and eases the longing in his chest for his dwarven companions and their constant banter. 

Bilbo lingers in bed for an indolent amount of time. Gradually, the tremors stop. He becomes aware instead of the heaviness settling deep in the marrow of his bones. It's the weight of grief and immense loss, and the uncertainty of what to do with himself. _If I were dead, perhaps it wouldn't hurt so much,_ Bilbo muses. But being dead would change nothing. He might be able to reunite with his parents and his ancestors in the afterlife, but he'll never again see Fíli and Kíli, and he'll never see _Thorin_.

Bilbo finally emerges from his room to fix himself a pot of tea. Even the warm, lemon-infused drink can't soothe away the burn in his throat. It tastes unusually bitter, too. He adds several more scoops of sugar to the tea, but it only manages to make the bitter drink cloyingly sweet. 

After downing his tea, Bilbo decides to spend time in his garden instead of sitting down for a proper breakfast. Forgoing a morning meal is not something Bilbo's ever willingly done, but the gnawing hunger in his belly is insignificant compared to the throbbing in his chest. 

Every time Bilbo closes his eyes, he sees _him_. Thorin's wary visage seems to be emblazoned on the back of his eyelids. It's a stain that refuses to be removed; an engraving immune to the erosion of time. The pain of seeing him again is worse than the bite of a blade. It cuts him to the quick, but it's a bittersweet sort of agony. 

The issue isn't that Bilbo no longer wants to see Thorin. Quite the opposite, in fact. He wants to see him every day for as much time as is conceivably possible, but he can't because Thorin is dead. No graphic dream is going to change that. 

Bilbo fetches his watering can, trying to expel thoughts of Thorin from his mind. He waters his plants, and uses vinegar to remove slug slime. He inspects the aphid infested leaves of his marigolds, and resolves to gather some ladybugs to curtail the tiny black bug invasion. The sun beats down on him as he works, and sweat beads along his hairline. Dirt clings to the underside of his nails. As much as he hates being dirty, having soil staining his hands is much preferable to having them coated in blood and viscera. 

The routine of gardening brings him a modicum of peace, but any happiness is curdled at the sight of a patch of rhododendrons creeping against the side of his house. He doesn't remember planting them. 

Bilbo approaches the bell-shaped trusses. His feet barely make contact with the ground as he pads across the grass. He wonders if he's caught in the throes of a dream, because suddenly his surroundings don't feel wholly real. The petals range from the palest pinks to wine-dark red. Bilbo outstretches his hand, examining the flowers with a clinical touch. Thorin's rumbling timbre echoes in his mind. _"They're pretty."_

No, they are most certainly not, Bilbo thinks stubbornly. Maybe if it weren't for his dream, they'd be a pleasant addition to his garden, but not now. They don't belong here. Bilbo uproots them all. He'll have a bonfire, he decides, and burn them. 

He closes his hand tightly around the uprooted flowers, crushing them in a choking grip.

_"They're pretty,"_ the voice in his head repeats.

"You know nothing of gardening, Thorin Oakenshield," he mutters. Luckily no one else is around to witness him talking to himself. "If you were here, I'd show you so many flowers. I'd show you every manner of beautiful plants. I'd pick them for you, and teach you how to grow them, and braid the stems into crowns that I'd give you to wear." A fat tear slips down his cheek, and he swipes it away furiously with his free hand. 

After gathering kindling for a fire, he disposes of the rhododendrons. His heart clatters painfully against his ribs as he watches the petals curl and shrivel against the heat of the fire. Soon only a pillow of ash and charred wood remains.

_No more reminders,_ he tells himself firmly. _It's time to forget._

If only it were that easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  tumblr user quenoeslomismo made this amazing fanart which you can reblog [here](http://quenoeslomismo.tumblr.com/post/173510155141/for-vintagelilacss-wonderful-story-i-saw-you) <3


	2. Chapter 2

Tiny black rivers bleed across the yellowed parchment, oily and dark like orc blood. Bilbo's certainly no expert, but orcs seemed to bleed a darker shade than the other races. The fact that he knows this, that he's actually seen orc blood up close, is yet another indication of how different he is now. It's not something other hobbits would be able to boast of, nor would any of them want to. 

Bilbo presses down with too much force, threatening to tear through the paper. More tributaries of ink trickle down the page. One could mistake him for a faunt given how many times he's forgotten to blot the ink today.

He cradles his chin in one hand, and resumes writing with the other. Outside, the wind whistles a piercing hymn, while the hearth inside his cozy home crackles. 

_I would dream of you staring at me the way you looked at acorns and flowers and honeybees,_ he jots the words onto paper, only because it seems more productive than letting the statement rattle around in his skull. 

Mawkish drivel is what it is. He's meant to be composing a memoir, not delving into the romance genre. 

He discards the paper with Thorin's words, and lays down a fresh sheet. _There once lived a hobbit,_ he writes instead, in careful, precise lettering. 

"Dammit, that's no good." Bilbo tears out yet another sheet of paper from his journal. His ink-pot is steadily dwindling, and he hasn't managed to advance past the first page. He's made a promise to himself that he'll write this book, and it's a promise he intends to keep. He finally has a story worth telling, and he knows that if he doesn't tell it, no one else will. And yet actually writing the bloody thing is impossible when his thoughts keep looping back to Thorin. Or more accurately, the likeness of Thorin his mind created in his dream.

He forces himself to try again. Writing is like sword fighting, or barrel riding, or any other useful skill. It takes perseverance. Agonizing, repetitive perseverance. 

_In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit._

Bilbo hesitates. It's hardly a scintillating beginning. Is it better to give a portion of backstory, or to delve right into the excitement? Won't the reader be bored if he starts with a long preface? Then again, if he dives right into the conflict, he runs the risk of leaving his readers confused. Assuming he manages to garner any readers at all, of course. 

Should he start his book on the morning of that fateful day when Gandalf asked him to join in on an adventure? Should he begin at the precise moment he opened his front door to find Dwalin on his doorstep? Or should he start later, in the thick of the action, and supply backstory as he goes along? 

He doesn't know. He's not even sure if he'll be able to put all of it to paper. How can mere words encompass the enormity of his grief? How can he explain how much he came to care for those dwarves? And more importantly, how is he supposed to detail how his feelings for Thorin progressed from hero-worship to... to whatever it was they became? Should he even include them? His own feelings are private, but he doesn't think he can accurately represent their journey without mentioning them. To erase the scope and magnitude of his admiration for Thorin would be a disservice to the dwarf's memory. For all that Bilbo is angry at him, he can't deny how deeply he cared for him, either. Or how much he still cares, despite his better judgment. 

To outsiders, Thorin likely painted a severe image. Frowning and intense, moving forward with single-minded determination to reclaim his home. With the onset of dragon sickness, Thorin's wariness of outsiders morphed into paranoia. That's not the version of Thorin that Bilbo wants immortalized in others' memories. He wants to emphasize the aspects of Thorin that the dwarf worked to hide. The secret smiles he'd give his nephews when neither were paying attention, how he always took the smallest portions of their food to ensure everyone else's needs were met, and how he'd put his own life on the line to protect his people, and even to protect Bilbo, who by all accounts should've meant nothing to him. 

With a shaky hand, Bilbo smooths his palm down a fresh, crisp sheet of paper, and begins to write. 

_Thorin Oakenshield II led the expedition to reclaim the Lonely Mountain from the great dragon Smaug._

He twirls his quill uncertainly. It wouldn't do to unload all of Thorin's qualities and traits without first detailing his physical appearance. The reader should have at least a slight impression of his appearance.

_Thorin was muscular and strong, with thick thighs and a contoured stomach. His arms were defined from training with weapons and wielding a smith's hammer at the forge. His eyes were blue, not dark like sapphires, but bright like the sky on a clear day, or periwinkles just starting to bloom. His hair was dark with strands of silver: a stretch of night sky with splashes of starlight. He was beautiful, but also intimidating. He did not seem the sort you could approach and ask to borrow flour from. He was more the type you'd meet and immediately want to swear fealty to. As for his temperament, he was not always the most easygoing of sorts. In fact, he was often downright rude, and very distrusting when you first met him. But behind his rough exterior, there was someone kind and selfless, who took his responsibility as future king seriously. He cared for his people and was willing to lay down his life for them. He was hurt and still licking his wounds from when he and his people had been betrayed and cast aside. He could often be foolish and stubborn to a fault, but he was also the most wonderful sort of person one could ever hope to meet._

Bilbo's hand stills. He rereads his writing with a groan. Could he sound anymore besotted? This doesn't sound like a historical account in the least. It sounds like a love confession, and not even a particularly good one! Bilbo rests his head in his hands. Writing a memoir was supposed to be a cathartic exercise, and yet all he's gained from it is a walloping headache. 

He crumples the paper, and tosses it into the reject pile. Or, perhaps reject _mountain_ is more a more apt description.

Bilbo pushes his chair out from his desk, and heads for his pantry. What he wouldn't give for athelas right now. Instead he takes an extract from butterbur root to help with his headache. It's a common fix, but he also knows that nothing eases a headache better than proper rest. 

Bilbo fluffs his pillows three times for good measure, and readies himself for bed. He's sore from working all day in the garden, and his wrist is cramping from hours of fruitless writing. Still, the aches in his body are a pleasant sort. Much preferable to the bruises and pains of clumsily wielding weapons and fleeing from monsters.

He turns onto his side, facing his bedroom window. Thin shafts of moonlight pool into the room through the cracks in the partially shut blinds. His lips quirk into a smile. He remembers a time when he dreamed of traveling to the moon, back when adventures were nothing more than a childish fancy. He used to imagine exploring every corner of Middle Earth, and then traveling beyond it, too. Now he's had his fill of adventures, and he understands the value and comfort of home. 

Bilbo fades into lassitude much sooner than he did the previous night. He no longer feels that inexplicable longing for adventure in his bones, but he still dreams all the same. 

* * *

That night, Bilbo's dreams are a motley assortment of too-bright colours and distorted shapes. They're normal dreams, following an illogical sequence that his brain seems to consider rational in the moment. In one dream, he and Lobelia are having a sword-fight over who gets to keep his spoons. Bilbo has the clear advantage after his training with Sting, but for some reason, he keeps dropping his sword. 

"If you can't hold onto your sword, we'll have no choice but to disqualify you," the auctioneer informs him gravely. 

"Where did you even come from?" Bilbo demands. He drops his sword again, but this time it falls into a hole in the ground. He reaches in after it, but the hole grows larger around him. He falls in, and the last thing he sees is the glint of silver as Lobelia brandishes her newly acquired spoons. 

_Damned Sackville-Bagginses!_ he thinks as the earth swallows him up. 

As Bilbo tumbles through the ground, the shapes around him begin to solidify. Everything becomes clearer. It's as if he was peering through a blurred window before, and can finally see clearly. The fog in his mind clears too, and his awareness sharpens to full alertness. 

He blinks everything into focus. He doesn't know where he is, but something about it feels like home. He's enveloped by a faint warmth. It's the feeling he gets late at night curled up in his armchair with a new book cracked open over his lap and a mug of warm tea in hand. It's safety and belonging and comfort all wrapped into one. 

Bilbo swivels to fully take in his surroundings. He's not entirely surprised to see Thorin once again occupying his dream space. This time, the scenery around them has changed. The sky is a syrupy orange, a stark contrast from the midnight blue sky waiting outside his bedroom window. The chirping of cicadas fills the air with a tranquil harmony, and a small copse of trees surrounds them. There is also a distinct lack of rhododendrons. 

Bilbo contents himself with analyzing Thorin's profile from afar. He assesses that straight nose and strong jaw, those subtle lips pressed into their usual frown. Even when brooding, Thorin's almost ridiculously handsome. It's really rather unfair. 

Thorin doesn't seem aware of him yet. He's seated on a nearby tree stump, with a ring of dotted mushrooms encircling him like some sort of barrier. 

What does the dwarf do when he's not here, Bilbo wonders. He doesn't appear bored, and yet all he's doing is sitting in quiet contemplation. Is this how he occupies himself? Ruminating and pondering to himself? If so, it's not much different from how Bilbo allocates his free-time. 

Bilbo shifts his weight ever-so-slightly, and those blue eyes immediately dart in his direction, catching the movement from their periphery. 

"Master Baggins," the relief in Thorin's voice is palpable. 

Bilbo glances over his shoulder. "Were you expecting someone else?" 

"No. It's only ever you."

"Okay? And that means what, exactly?" 

Thorin deliberates his next words. "We're connected." 

"No, we're really not," Bilbo contends. Better to nip wishful thinking in the bud than allow it to flourish. 

"We are," Thorin protests. 

Bilbo picks at his cuticles, unable to meet Thorin's earnest gaze. He can't indulge in the fantasy of Thorin, not even for a moment. If he does, it will prove that much harder when he inevitably awakes. "I fail to see how." 

"We... perhaps I'll explain another time. There's something I've wanted to tell you." Thorin's chest rises on a sharp inhale. "I did not properly realize until Laketown, but I'm sure it started well before." 

Bilbo raises a brow at the non sequitur. "Oh?" 

Thorin seems to quail a bit at the hardness in Bilbo's voice. "Yes," he hesitates, eyes flicking to the side. "There are many matters I wish to discuss, actually." 

"Interesting." His throat convulses on a tight swallow. "Because I have nothing I wish to discuss with you." 

"Nothing?" Thorin echoes. 

"That's what I said. Nice of you to finally start listening to me." There were so many times Thorin had refused to listen to him, so many instances he'd chosen to remain deaf to Bilbo's pleas.

_"Thorin, I'm worried. You're not yourself."_

_"Thorin, you haven't slept in days. You should take a break from searching."_

_"You've won the Mountain. Is that not enough? Is the Arkenstone really worth more than your honour?"_

He refused to listen to Bilbo earlier. Refused to see reason, to accept his counsel. Refused to believe that Bilbo had his best interests at heart. Even when he was sick and unwell, with dark smudges delineating his eyes and hysteria straining his every breath, he'd refused Bilbo's aid. 

A roiling anger thrums beneath the hobbit's skin. He never allowed himself to get properly angry over everything that had happened. Back then, he hadn't been able to blame Thorin, not when he was half delirious in his paranoia. Instead, all Bilbo had felt entitled to was guilt and grief. Now, he isn't so sure. 

Thorin takes a step closer. Bilbo instinctively shifts back. Hurt flashes across the dwarf's face, but he quickly conceals it behind a stoic veneer. "There are so many hurts I wish I could undo." 

Bilbo's hands clench. If this encounter wasn't happening in his dreams, he's certain his nails would have broken through his skin from how tight his grip is. He can't stand hearing Thorin like that, all gentle and... and almost loving. As if things between them could be so easily repaired. As if their hurt only had one fault line, and not a thousand different spiraling cracks. "Well, you can't!" His voice is hardened steel, forged from a pain he has no hope of retrenching. "You can't undo them and you can't fix anything." 

"You are right to blame me." He's never heard Thorin speak like this before. His voice is as soft as a bed of green grass, as gentle as spring-water flowing over river stones. "I treated you like an enemy, called you traitor, threatened your life. My actions were inexcusable and you are entitled to your anger." 

"Thorin Oakenshield," Bilbo grits his teeth. "You are a fool if you think that has anything to do with why I'm mad at you." 

The fallen dwarf worries his lower lip between his teeth. His face is open for once, his armour and defenses cast aside to reveal helpless vulnerability. "I wish to understand." 

Something in Bilbo breaks at that, a final dam or fortification he hadn't realized was still in place. A deluge of resentment finally floods forwards. "You left me!" He explodes with vitriolic fury. "You died and you left me!" Bilbo wraps his arms around himself. An ugly sob bubbles up in his throat. "How could you do that to me?" 

Thorin looks stricken. The colour flees from his cheeks, leaving them with the pale gauntness appropriate to the dead. "There are no words for how sorry I am, Bilbo." 

"Even if there were, I would not want to hear them." Words cannot alter the past. Words can't bring Thorin back to him. Words fix nothing. They are empty and fatuous, breeders of false hope and soon-to-be broken promises. 

"Tell me what I can do," Thorin pleads. His jaw is set with rigid determination, his eyes steely and determined. The fierceness in his gaze is the same that's led others to follow him into battle. It's the look of someone who will spend their last breath fighting for what they want. Where that expression had once left Bilbo exhilarated, it now fills him with an anguished dread. 

"Nothing," his chest heaves. "There's nothing." 

Bilbo steps back, stumbling over clumsy, untrained feet. Part of him wants to banish Thorin from his dreams forever, and the other part is terrified of losing this connection they share, even if it is entirely fabricated. Whether by sheer force of will or simply because of the rooster crowing outside his window, Bilbo awakens. His dream dissolves, and Thorin Oakenshield fades with it. 

Bilbo only wishes his grief could vanish so easily too. 

* * *

Bilbo sticks to the twists and bends of the pathways, stepping over the aggregation of cracks and fissures in the pavement, and smiling at the lone violet poking up between the cement. He’s not going anywhere in particular, but he wants to get there faster. He's still dressed in his nightrobe, and he knows he must make quite the interesting spectacle for the early risers.

The gentle wind is soothing on his stinging cheeks and the morning sun promises plentiful sunshine and heat. Part of him wishes for storm clouds, if only so he could blame the wetness on his cheeks for rain. 

As he meanders through the Shire, he passes groups of younger hobbits tussling in the grass. Some are playing bowls, while others play quoits. Bilbo always favoured the former in his youth, even though he could never manage to hit the damn pins. 

"Mornin' Mister Baggins," a cheerful voice calls out. He waves instinctively. The motion feels jerky and unnatural. "Where are you off to this fine morning?" 

"I haven't the faintest clue!" Bilbo declares in the same tone he used when he first announced he was going on an adventure. He feels like he's stepping into an old role. He knows all the proper things to say, all the right motions to make, but they're not his. Not anymore. 

He saunters aimlessly, past hobbit holes and sprawling gardens. He spies a row of sunflowers, and notes that the ones in his own garden are larger and taller. Once such an observation would have filled him with a secret pride. Now he finds he doesn't particularly care. 

Bilbo finally comes to a halt beside a small creek. The tall grasses scratch his exposed angles as he slips closer. The calloused undersides of his feet aren't bothered by the random pebbles or thistles that they step over. He dips his toes into the water. It's cold. If he were younger, he could dive in no problem, but in his middle age, it takes him longer to adjust to the frigid temperature. He throws his robe behind him and begins to wade in. 

The chill of the water strikes a chord in his memory. He remembers the first riverbed he and the dwarves happened upon during their journey. They'd been traveling for days already, and Bilbo had taken to breathing through his mouth in order to avoid the unsavoury scents of unwashed bodies and dried sweat. 

Upon reaching the water, the dwarves had promptly dropped their provisions and stripped out of their clothing. 

Bilbo had been rendered speechless at the sight of so many nude and entirely unabashed bodies. 

"Comin' Master Burglar?" Bombur had called from the water. Multiple pairs of eyes trained on him. 

Bilbo spluttered. "No, no. I'll just wait until you lot are finished." 

"What, are you too good to bathe with dwarves?" Nori teased. 

"Of course not!" Bilbo edged away from the bank of the river. "I prefer to bathe in private, if you must know." 

"Ah, he's shy," Fíli posited. 

"I am not!" 

"Come on, Mister Boggins, we won't peek!" Kíli assured him. 

"It's Baggins, and you most certainly won't because I don't intend to bathe until you're all finished." To demonstrate how respectful he was, Bilbo faced away from the group. He heard splashes and laughter behind him. "Let me know when you're all fin-AAHH!" 

Turning his back to the group had proven a terrible idea. Even now, he's not sure which of Thorin's nephews pulled him into the water, or if it had been a joint effort. One moment he'd been standing patiently, and the next he was hitting the cold water with a shrill cry. Clothes soaked and dignity bruised, Bilbo chose the appropriate response and tried to drown the brothers. 

Balin muttered about being too old for such antics, while Dwalin disguised his laughter as a series of coughs. 

It had been Thorin who came to his defense, admonishing his nephews in a low growl of Khuzdul. Thorin had been entirely respectful and averted his eyes politely in front of him. Bilbo remembers how quickly and diligently he'd washed himself, scrubbing through his tangled hair, and picking at the coagulated blood on his hairline. Thorin's gaze didn't flicker in his direction once, but he'd thought to himself that if the dwarf had stolen a peek, he wouldn't have minded. 

The water surrounding Bilbo now seems even colder than the river from their journey. Or perhaps it's not the frigid water that's stealing the air from his lungs. Bilbo steps back, pulling free from the icy tendrils of water and back to dry land. 

Bilbo inspects his body with cold detachment. He's trembling all over. From the chill of the water, he decides. Or maybe it's from low blood sugar. It's what happens when one foolishly decides to skip breakfast. When he returns home, he's going to have a proper breakfast. And second breakfast. And elevenses. And maybe he'll opt for an early dinner, too. 

* * *

Bilbo decides that establishing a steady routine is the best way to move forward. He resolves to start every morning with a cup of tea and a hearty breakfast, and then to run his errands in the early hours of the morning before tending to his garden. His afternoons and evenings will be largely focused on his writing. 

The normalcy of it proves comforting, but without an influx of excitement, he's unable to keep his thoughts from straying. He often finds himself dwelling on the status of Erebor. He wonders if the mountain settlement is flourishing under Dáin's leadership. Will the gold sickness infect him as well, or he is immune to its thrall? How are the other dwarves of the company faring? He hopes they're all doing well. It's no easy feat, rebuilding an entire kingdom. They're likely too busy to have time to wallow in their grief. Bilbo's envies them for that.

When Bilbo settles at his writing desk, he scrawls out a few messy letters enquiring about his dwarven friends. They all sound rigid and overly formal. Bilbo's nose scrunches up as he rereads the one he composed for Balin. He's definitely not sending any of them, not when they all sound so stilted and awkward. Keeping in contact may not be the best idea, anyway. He's extended them an invitation to come for tea, and if they choose to take him up on his offer, he'll eagerly welcome them, but otherwise, it may be best to put a halt to their friendships. How else can he expect it put it all behind him? 

The following night, Thorin is noticeably absent from his dreams. Bilbo supposes this is a good thing, because what he's really needed is space and time to be alone with his thoughts. 

However, on his third consecutive night without seeing the dwarf, Bilbo starts to worry. What if he's gone for good? What if Bilbo's subconscious doesn't permit anymore dreams with him in it? He's read before that recurring dreams are often the mind's efforts at working through suppressed problems. Perhaps now that Bilbo's had the chance to resolve some of his anger, has gotten to yell and reprimand, his mind no longer sees any merit in dreaming up Thorin. 

The possibility discomfits him greatly. He doesn't understand the alchemy of dreams. All he does know is that there is a yawning sense of loss inside him. 

Even if the Thorin from his dreams wasn't real, he still felt very real. And the fact that their last meeting ended with Bilbo devolving into a fit of anger still fills him with a very real sense of guilt. What if he never dreams of him again? Bilbo's heart clenches with regret. It'll be like losing him a second time. 

He presses his face into his pillow, before breathing out in a voice so soft even his ears barely register it. _"Please don't be gone."_

* * *

First, there is nothing but blackness. Thick and pervasive, a force that could blot out the very sun. Eventually it starts to melt away, allowing hints of colour to trickle through. Bilbo slogs through the morass of twisting shadows, stretching out a hand and latching onto the trail of colour. He follows the tenuous thread from one dream into the next.

"You!" Bilbo exclaims, the single word falling from his mouth before he's even processed what he's seeing. "Where were you?" he demands without preamble. Now is not the time for platitudes and formal greetings. 

Thorin adjusts his rumpled clothes before daring to peek up at him. "The way here was blocked," he explains tentatively, as if expecting Bilbo to lose his temper at any second. "I'd assumed you did not wish to see me."

"Well, as usual, you assumed wrong," Bilbo huffs. Honestly, how did he ever manage putting up with dwarves? 

The two of them lapse into silence. He's not sure how to break it. He feels as if there's a scab over his heart, and a bit of prodding is all that's needed for the wound to reopen. He doesn't want to get angry again. It's exhausting, having to constantly oscillate between anger and grief. 

"What plants are these?" Thorin speaks up, jarring him from his thoughts. He gestures to a stalk of shiny, dark berries. "Are they poisonous too?" he asks, cupping the berries in a board palm. 

"Belladonna," Bilbo realizes with a startle. "And yes." 

"You're fond of them," Thorin observes, tilting his head in question. 

"Ah, well," Bilbo shrugs halfheartedly. He's unable to maintain a neutral expression. "Belladonna was my mother's name."

"Tell me of her," Thorin requests, and the two settle into a tentative camaraderie. 

"You can't be interested in hearing about her," Bilbo protests, feeling more than a little disgruntled. 

"I am. She was very dear to you, I can tell." Thorin fiddles with his tunic. It occurs to Bilbo that the Thorin in his dreams has never once been clad in armour; only in soft linens. "I wish to know everything about you."

"Er, right. She... well, she was remarkable. She was a Took, you know, so naturally she was headstrong, always getting into trouble, and not the most conventional of hobbits." 

Thorin's lips tip into an increasingly familiar smile. He seldom smiled during their quest, but to be fair, there were few moments that allowed for it. "She sounds like someone else I know." 

"You can't mean me." 

"I've never met anyone as headstrong as you." 

"Me? Headstrong?" Bilbo snorts. "If I were headstrong I would've been firmer with you. Forced you to see reason instead of being so passive."

"You stole from right under my nose. I wouldn't call that passive." 

Even though there's nothing accusatory about Thorin's tone, it still makes Bilbo flinch. Guilt prickles his skin. "Yes, well, enough of that. I, er, wanted to apologize for how I reacted last time." Bilbo's quite aware that he's essentially apologizing to a figment of his imagination, but the apology feels necessary all the same. 

"You have nothing to apologize for," Thorin says firmly. "I've wronged you, Master Baggins, and I hope I can make amends." 

"Don't," Bilbo blurts. "I mean, don't call me Master Baggins. We're on a first-name basis by now, aren't we?" After all they've endured together, he thinks they certainly should be. 

Thorin's smile widens incrementally. "I didn't want to be presumptuous." 

Bilbo licks his lips. Strange how they can feel so chapped in his dreams. Stranger still how vivid his dreams are now. "What was it you wished to discuss before?" 

"I wanted to apologize properly-" 

"Please don't. It's not needed. At all." Bilbo fidgets, before dropping to his knees beside Thorin. "I'm the one who should be apologizing."

"Whatever for?" Thorin looks properly bewildered, his dark brows drawn together and a crease stretching across his forehead.

"Losing my temper, for starters." 

"If you'll recall, I'm no stranger to losing my temper, either," Thorin points out. 

Bilbo allows himself a tiny huff of laughter. "You do have a point." 

Thorin's lips part in a tiny smile, revealing a flash of teeth. It's amazing how even a small smile can completely transform his stern, brooding face. His perpetual frown lines ease until only faint impressions of their existence remain. "Tell me more of your mother. Were you very close?" 

"Yes. With both my parents, actually. My father, Bungo Baggins, was a very respectable hobbit. He was quite round, as proper, well-fed hobbits are, and he always had well-groomed foot hair." Bilbo pauses, waiting for Thorin to cast judgment on hobbits and what he surely considers to be strange customs. Instead he looks enraptured. 

"How did they meet?" he asks. 

"A drinking contest, actually. It was at a midsummer festival, and my mother drank him under the table." 

"I'm sure it was very impressive." 

"Oh, it was. Not that I'd been born yet, but it was. She could outdrink you without a problem." 

Thorin scoffs. 

"No, really."

"With all due respect, I'm sure the spirits you hobbits drink are not as strong as dwarven mead." 

"Please," Bilbo laughs. "I saw how easily you dwarves became intoxicated at Laketown. Barely had five flagons before you were stumbling about."

"If you'll recall, I was not one of the dwarves who lost their wits." 

"Only because you didn't drink." 

"I had a stein of mead," he protests. 

" _A_ stein. Singular. Admit it, Thorin, you're a lightweight." 

"Sometimes I forget just how much of a nuisance you are," Thorin grumbles. 

"Then I'll consider it my mission to ensure you never forget again," Bilbo replies cheekily. For a suspended moment, each one of his broken pieces seem to slot into place. He's happy. For the first time in so long, he feels well and truly happy. Of course, the awareness that his heart is no longer hurting is an apt reminder that not only is his encounter with Thorin not real, it's also not going to last. 

"What's wrong?" Thorin inquires, and Bilbo realizes with a start that it's been quiet between them for too long. 

He clears the debris from his throat. "Just got lost in my head for a moment." 

"Tell me what you were thinking," he orders. 

Incredible. Thorin may be royalty, but he has no right to demand anything from him. 

"If... if you're willing," he amends. Bilbo wonders if his irritation showed through on his face, or if Thorin realized how entitled he sounded. 

"Nothing important, really." His vexation filters away. "Only that I miss you." 

"I'm right here," Thorin points out. 

"Yes," Bilbo laughs wetly. "So you are." And yet you've never seemed farther away. 

"What was it like? Growing up in the Shire?" 

Bilbo closes his eyes. He wants to spend every second possible absorbing the details and nuances of Thorin's face, but the sight of him is too painful to bear. "Comfortable," he decides eventually. "Probably boring, by most standards. What was it like for you? Before Smaug stole your home from you?"

Thorin's eyes glaze over. "Magnificent. The work of my forefathers was unrivaled. What you saw of Erebor was ruins. Decrepit, broken remains. It used to be a sight unlike anything I've ever seen." 

"There didn't seem to be many windows," Bilbo comments. A lack of sunlight certainly isn't useful for growing plants. If he were an architect, that would've been his first alteration. 

"No, there weren't. But there were stone terraces and open-air promenades should one wish to feel the fresh air." 

Bilbo remembers being dangled over the edge of the ramparts, his skin chilled from the crisp mountain air, and heart skittering wildly in his chest from the sheer drop below. Erebor's above ground walkways don't hold the fondest memories for him. 

"All the stonework was brilliantly crafted. I wish I could've shown you the treasure rooms and the forges as they once were," Thorin's voice seems to thicken with emotion. Is it admiration in his voice, or a lingering tinge of sickness? How thin is the demarcation between admiration and obsession? 

Bilbo lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug, prepared to put a halt to the awe in Thorin's voice. "I don't particularly care for gold and treasure." 

Thorin seems to come back to himself at this. His excitement dims, but his expression doesn't seem to shift to disappointment. If anything, he looks bemused. "No, you never have."

"I just don't see the appeal in gold. What can you do with it? It's not alive the way plants are. You can't care for it or nurture it. You can't get a sense of accomplishment watching it grow because it doesn't." 

"That is all true, but there is a sense of pride in mining from the earth, and in melting down ore and fashioning it into something of use. The tools you use for irrigation and agriculture would not be possible without metal smiths." 

"Well, I suppose that's true," Bilbo allows, not eager to concede so soon. 

"It is true. You'd understand if you could see the work we did." Thorin's tongue swipes across his lips. "I was seven when I first entered the forge. It was loud, hammers constantly striking metal. And it was hot. I started sweating almost the moment I entered." 

The image of a sweaty Thorin is not one Bilbo needs in his head anytime soon. Not unless he wants their interaction to become embarrassing very quickly. He clears his throat. "Seven years? That's very young by dwarven standards, isn't it?" 

"Extremely. But I was precocious. I wish I could've shown you the first set of armour I made. Or the first bead I fashioned." 

"Is it not one of the ones in your hair?" Bilbo starts to reach for a beaded strand, before catching himself. He quickly disguises the movement by scratching his arm.

Thorin follows his gaze to the beads woven into his hair. "No, these were made later. I lost the first bead I made. Argued with Frerin for days over it. I thought he'd taken it as some sort of prank." 

"Frerin," Bilbo tests the name. "And who is he?" 

"He was my," Thorin pauses. His throat bobs as he swallows. _Please don't say lover, please don't say lover,_ Bilbo chants silently. "Brother." 

Bilbo almost sags with relief. He's being ridiculous, and he knows it, but hearing that Thorin's heart already belonged to another would be no easy thing to accept. "Wait, you said _was_ your brother." Bilbo stumbles over his words, wary of sounding overly intrusive. It's a difficult thing, showing concern and interest in someone else's life without being invasive. "What happened?" 

"He perished in the Battle of Azanulbizar." 

That would explain why he wasn't a part of their company. Bilbo's voice softens. "I'm sorry." 

"Why?" Thorin's laughter is dry and hollow, and it makes Bilbo want to cringe away. "You were not the orc that rent him apart."

"No, but I care for you and you care for him, therefore I'm sorry you had to endure that." 

"Are all hobbits like you?" Thorin wonders. 

"That depends. What am I like?"

Thorin doesn't miss a beat. "Kind. There were times during our quest that I had to wonder if it was a rouse, but you really are a kind-natured creature." The look of awe in Thorin's eyes is the same from when he spoke of gold and treasure. Bilbo's not sure what he's done to be worthy of such esteem. 

"I'd like to think most people are kind." 

"They're not." 

"Thorin," he admonishes. 

"It's true," he insists. "Not even the wizard is kind." 

"Gandalf's plenty kind to me!" Bilbo argues, indignant on his behalf. 

"Then he is only kind when it suits him. It is a fact that he uses people to achieve an end. I may not know how his mind works, but he didn't help me reclaim my home out of the goodness of his heart." 

"Maybe he did have an ulterior motive," Bilbo allows, "but it doesn't change the fact that he did help you!" 

"Not like you," Thorin points out. "You had nothing to gain. Nothing but a measly portion of treasure you don't even care for. You gave up your armchair and your books for me. _Us,_ " he quickly rectifies. Bilbo chooses not to linger on his blunder. 

"Thorin, those are just things. And I enjoy them very much, but they're not..." he grapples for the right words. "I would give them up in a heartbeat if it meant having you back. I'd give up Bag End, my garden, everything." 

Before Bilbo can process what's happening, Thorin's hand is brushing aside one of his russet curls. "If only Mahal had blessed me with your eyes. What it must be like to see the world the way you do." 

Bilbo's skin feels electrified, every nerve ending humming with sensation. He wishes Thorin would touch him again. He wants to lean his head into those strong, broad hands. He wants to let himself be held. He attempts to find a way to voice this, but he's distracted by a sudden dizzying blur of colour. 

Bilbo blinks rapidly. Thorin looks... all wrong. Tilted and blurring out of focus. It's as if Bilbo's drunk, but that's impossible. "What's happening?" 

Thorin's smile is wan and more than a little sad. "You're waking up." 

Bilbo curses himself. Whatever was he thinking? For a few dangerous minutes, he actually allowed himself to forget that it was all a dream. Talking to Thorin had felt so real. It was more than that—he'd _wanted_ it to be real.

Bilbo fumbles for Thorin's hand, desperation and panic preventing him from second-guessing himself. He grips Thorin's large hand between the both of his. "Come back." 

"I will," Thorin rumbles in his ear. "You have my word." 

Before he can respond, the pull of consciousness yanks him into a much unwanted reality. Bilbo wrenches his eyes open to a sun-brightened room. His hand still tingles where it touched Thorin. Where he _dreamt_ he touched Thorin, that is. 

A part of him wonders if it's possible to roll over and sleep once more, to dream the remainder of his life away. The rest of him knows better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was a bit unsure of it but I hope this chapter was okay!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone's who's left comments/feedback <3

The routine Bilbo's established doesn't only extend to his waking life. Even his dreams are starting to possess a vague pattern.

A sumptuous breakfast marks the start of Bilbo's mornings, followed by work in the garden under the sultry summer sun, and then a quiet afternoon holed up in his study. His nights are comprised of the cool embrace of sleep, and all the promise it carries in the form of dreams. Many of his dreams are elusive and nonsensical. By the time morning comes, they've trickled through the gaps in his memory until he can only recall nebulous fragments. His dreams of Thorin are of an entirely different composition. They're so definite and animated that he often goes against his better judgment, and allows himself to entertain the dangerous possibility that they might just be real. 

His interactions with Thorin retain their own sort of routine. While Bilbo lacks the influence and control to structure his dreams the same way he does his conscious moments, none of his interactions with Thorin deviate too dramatically. In all of them, they're surrounded by plant life, and an indelible atmosphere of calm ensconces them. There's peace and comfort shared between them, but also an undercurrent of bitterness that taints each precious word they exchange. 

In some dreams, Bilbo yells, in others he cries, and in some he won't feel like doing much of anything at all. He's angry and unforgiving, broken and grieving, but still very helpless to the pull of love and affection yanking at his chest. 

In all his dreams, Thorin is gentle and patient, and Bilbo is only able to catch fleeting glimpses of his temper and pettiness. On one occurrence when Thorin was describing the unparalleled beauty of dwarven architecture, Bilbo unthinkingly commented that Elvish buildings were quite lovely too. Thorin glared at him for the remainder of the dream, and refused to offer more than monosyllabic answers. Bilbo wanted to chide him for his rudeness, but really he couldn't help thinking it was rather endearing. 

Thorin wouldn't be the same without his haughty pride and swift temper. Even Bilbo's subconscious mind recognizes that fact. The version of Thorin his mind constructs in his dream isn't simply an amalgamation of his better qualities, but an accumulation of all of them. All his quirks and vices, his mannerisms and flaws—they're all present. It makes him see that much more real, and it's that much harder to leave him each morning. 

* * *

Birdsong fills his dreams: cheerful trills accompanied by the occasional low, mournful note. Thin wisps of cloud drift lazily across an expanse of blue sky. Such a beautiful colour. Blue. Blue skies. Blue oceans. Blue irises, hyacinths, periwinkles, morning glory and forget-me-nots. Blue like Thorin's eyes.

The clouds drift directly in front of the sun, enveloping it like a gossamer shawl. Bilbo leans back against the tree. Rough bark bites into his shoulders, but he makes no move to reposition himself against the tree trunk. It's warm and comfortable here against Thorin's side, and he doesn't want to risk upsetting how closely they're seated. His Tookish side wonders if Thorin would notice if he shifted closer. Nothing too obvious; only a few measly inches. He bets it would be even warmer if he were to snuggle right up against Thorin's side. Maybe he'd wrap an arm around Bilbo, too. There's so much strength in the dwarf's body. Being wrapped around him would feel so safe. Right now they're close, and yet not close enough. Almost touching, but not quite.

"What's wrong?" 

"Hm?" Bilbo makes a questioning noise, Thorin's inquiry catching him entirely by surprise. 

"You think too loudly, burglar. I can tell there's something on your mind." 

"Uh, yeah." He'd rather not reveal that the 'something' was Thorin himself. Or, more accurately, the comfort and strength of Thorin's well-honed body. Bilbo scrambles for something to say. "I was wondering... what's it like being dead?" he blurts. When no immediate answer comes, Bilbo cranes his neck to witness the extent of Thorin's response. At times, his face seems to reveal more than his words do. Now, he's broadcasting a contemplative frown. 

"Peaceful," he eventually decides. His lips barely move.

Bilbo doesn't try to disguise his snort. 

"What?" Thorin demands, twisting to fix him a defensive glare. 

Bilbo holds up his hands in a placating manner. "I was expecting a more in-depth answer, that's all." 

"I don't have a way with words like you do," Thorin grumbles, his bottom lip jutting into a faint pout that he would deny if Bilbo pointed out. "There isn't a better word for it. Not that I know of. It's simply peaceful. It's the knowledge that I can finally rest, that everything is going to be alright. It's not a contentment I could've ever hoped to achieve while alive." 

This isn't the answer Bilbo expected, nor is it one he wanted. He's not sure what he was hoping Thorin would say. "You're glad, then? That you died?" he asks, sotto voce.

"Glad? No, of course not. I felt as if I'd been robbed of so much."

Bilbo frowns at his wording. "And you don't feel that way anymore?" he clarifies. 

"Could we speak of something else?" Thorin pleads, his voice strained. It's clearly not a topic he can address with ease. In all fairness, it's not one Bilbo is having an easy time listening to, either. 

"Yes, of course," he hastens to reply.

Thorin doesn't offer an alternate subject to descant. His lips are pressed resolutely together. 

Bilbo feels a stab of panic. He doesn't want the conversation to die so quickly. The silence between them now is neither peaceful nor comfortable. It's taut and strained, and he can feel the heaviness of it settle over his flesh. It clogs each one of his pores and weighs down on him. He can't stand it. "Do you..." he starts, hoping the words will somehow find him. 

"What?" Thorin prompts. 

"What's your favorite colour?" Bilbo blurts, desperate for something to say. 

If Thorin is caught off guard by the impromptu question, he gives no indication. “Green,” he answers easily. 

Bilbo squints. He half-expected Thorin to brush the question aside as something inconsequential and superfluous. If he had to guess at Thorin's favorite colour, he assumed his preference would have been the glimmering shade of precious metals; not the rich hue of plants and earth and life itself. “Not gold?” he intones casually. 

Thorin smiles faintly. “At one point, perhaps.”

“Why the change of heart?” 

Thorin sifts his hand through the blades of verdant grass, examining each individual stalk with unprecedented interest. “It reminds me of someone.”

Bilbo tries to build up the nerve to ask who, exactly, reminds Thorin of the colour green, but the dwarf speaks before he can. 

"And what is your favorite colour, Master Baggins?" 

"Just Bilbo is fine," he corrects for the umpteenth time. He doesn't need to consider his answer. "Blue." 

Thorin's mouth twists in amusement. "Blue like the sky?" 

_Blue like your eyes._ Of course Bilbo doesn't say as much. "It's a nice colour," he says instead. 

"Tell me of your other favorites?" It's a request, but Thorin sounds so uncertain, he voices it like a question. 

"My other favorite colours, you mean?" Bilbo clarifies. 

He shakes his head. "Tell me your favorites of everything." 

"Everything?" he repeats. "That will take quite a while."

There's a playful quality to Thorin's smile. "I have time." 

Of course you do. All that the dead have is time. Bilbo purses his lips in thought. "Well, I can't decide on a favorite flower. They're all wonderful in their own way. Even carrion flowers can be used to repel unwanted company." 

"I hope you'd never use them to repel me." 

"Only if you deserve it." 

Thorin throws his head back and gives a full-bellied laugh. "That's fair, then. What else?" 

He mulls over what to say next. Is Thorin really content with him listing his favorite things? He can't think of anything especially interesting to say. "Erm, well, my favorite pipeweed is Old Toby."

"I admit I'm rather partial to Southlinch, myself." 

Oh no. He did not just say that. "Thorin," Bilbo says seriously, "I'm going to offer you a chance to rescind that statement." 

"I like it," he insists. "I tried Old Toby once but it doesn't have the same sweet tang that Southlinch has." 

Why the nerve! Anyone with even the sparsest knowledge of pipeweed knows that Southlinch is cheap and inferior in comparison. "Just so we're clear, this is exactly the sort of situation where I'd use carrion flowers to repel you." 

A shocked burst of laughter escapes Thorin. He tries to muffle the sound, but to little success. Bilbo feels a ping of warmth in his chest, and allows himself to join in on Thorin's laughter. The dwarf's laugh is a low, rumbling boom of thunder, while Bilbo's is higher and almost maniacal. 

Once they've both sobered, Bilbo sucks in a slow, deep breath. Even if it's only occurring in his dream, it feels good to laugh again, to feel that pleasant ache in his ribs. He'd almost forgotten he still could. "You know, I never did ask what your favorite flower is." 

Twin spots of colour rest high on Thorin's cheeks, and he's still very much flushed from laughing. When he speaks, his voice lacks its previous mirth, and instead possesses a more somber tone. "On our quest there was a single purple flower sprouting from rocky soil. I watched you stare at it. We were on the run from orcs, hungry and exhausted, but you smiled so widely when you saw it." 

"A purple flower? I don't even remember it." He meets Thorin's tender gaze. "And you don't know the name of the flower?"

"I do not," Thorin confirms. "But if I had to choose a favorite, it would be that one." 

Bilbo stares dumbly. Thorin's favorite flower is his favorite simply because he saw Bilbo smile at it. He doesn't know how he's supposed to react to that. He feels warm all over. The sensation is akin to spending hours in the direct path of the sun's rays. It's a pleasant, lethargic sort of heat that percolates through his skin and into his very bones. 

Thorin misreads Bilbo's sudden silence. "I'm sorry if I've bored you," he licks his lips nervously, "with all this speaking of flowers."

"Flowers and gardening aren't topics that hobbits readily tire of," Bilbo assures him. He also doubts he'll ever tire of anything Thorin does or says. Even watching the dwarf sit in silence is an engrossing experience, and one he'll always treasure. He forces himself to add, "I like talking with you." 

_Even if you're just a phantom, a specter conjured by my own mind._

* * *

The following morning, Bilbo is distraught to realize he lacks the ingredients to make pie crust. He begins the trek to the market with weary feet. Even though he's extremely inconvenienced and in a rather foul mood, he forces himself to exchange pleasantries with the other hobbits at the marketplace. He recites "hello," "good day," and other meaningless phrases he's learned by rote. His greetings are mechanical, and so deeply ingrained he doesn't have to expend much effort on them. He knows the other hobbits already view him as some sort of recluse. There are all manner of stories and rumours about him now. Some speculate he's possessed; others have surmised he acquired some sort of sickness while he was abroad. 

He supposes that if heartbreak can be construed as a sickness, they're right. 

Wary, suspicious sets of eyes linger on him as he purchases a new set of spoons and kitchen supplies in addition to the baking ingredients, but luckily most of the other hobbits seem to be assuaged by his genteel greetings and words of thanks. As long as he's still polite and cordial and proper, they won't consider him to be too much of an aberration. 

Bilbo loads his haul into an old wheelbarrow. Two bags of flour, a dozen fresh eggs, and a stick of butter, as well as a cut of fresh meat for supper, a set of unembellished silver spoons to make up for the ones he lost, and a new soup ladle because he still hasn't been able to track down his old one.

One stand he passes boasts of different types of pipeweed. Normally he prefers to cultivate his own, but he pauses to take a gander at the selection. He recognizes Old Toby easily, but it takes him a moment to determine which one is Southlinch. His palms feel rather clammy all of a sudden.

"Can I help ya, Mister Baggins?" The vendor asks.

He delves into his pocket. His fingers close around a small handful of coins, slicking perspiration across their metal surface. "I'll take the Southlinch." 

His heart squeezes painfully as he exchanges a generous number of coins for the Southlinch. He rearranges his wheelbarrow so that the pipeweed is located at the bottom. Out of sight, but far from out of mind. 

Bilbo's pockets are significantly lighter than when he arrived at the market, but money won't ever be an issue for him again. Not unless a distant cousin of Smaug arrives in Bag End to take back Bilbo's portion of the treasure. Luckily the odds of that happening are slim enough that Bilbo feels safe sleeping at night with both eyes shut. 

After wheeling his purchases home and reorganizing his pantry, Bilbo retreats to his study and takes up his quill, as he is wont to do. The Southlinch still sits at the bottom of his wheelbarrow, and he'll address its existence another day. For now, his attention is to be solely on his writing. 

After a fair bit of deliberation, Bilbo had decided to utilize two separate journals to record his thoughts. The one with the red cover will be the official story detailing the perils of their quest. The second, the one with blue binding that reminds him of a certain dwarf's eyes, will be for him only, brimming with the secret, private feelings he can't manage to voice.

The first page of the red journal reads: _In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort._

The second starts differently. 

_When Bilbo Baggins was fifty years of age, he met the most aggravating, rude, short-tempered, infuriating dwarf to inhabit Middle Earth. Naturally, Bilbo fell completely and irrevocably in love with him._

It seems fitting how each journal starts with one of the two things he values the most in the world: his precious home and, unsurprisingly, Thorin. Bilbo traces over the word 'love' with his finger. Even seeing it on paper makes his heart-rate pick up and his breath desert him. Having it written down, for some inexplicable reason, makes it seem much more real. It's simultaneously terrifying and wonderful. 

He actually wrote it down. Now, if he could only manage to say it aloud. 

_I love you_ he thinks. _I love you, Thorin Oakenshield._ His tongue doesn't cooperate. It is numb in his mouth. It may as well be detached for all the control he has over it. Well. He can only expect so much from himself. Putting it to paper is his reckless act of the day. Saying it aloud can be saved for another time. 

* * *

That night, sleep doesn't gently claim; it steals over him with staggering force. A series of images flicker rapid-fire beneath his weighted eyelids. The miasma of death fills his lungs. The air is stagnant, full of festering, rotting smells. There's not a breeze to be felt, and yet, despite the absence of wind and air currents, it's chillingly cold. 

Bilbo wanders through a vast wasteland. The ground is white, meaning it must be winter. The only logical conclusion is that there's snow underfoot. He checks to make certain. It's not snow. The ground consists of pale bone fragments and skeletal remains.

He starts to run, trying to escape the ivory carpet of the dead. The skeletons stretch as far as he can see. There's no escaping them, but he tries nonetheless. His foot snags on a rib bone, sending him tumbling to the ground. He lands in front of him a body, but it's not like the others. Its flesh is still very much present, and it has yet to decompose. He knows this body. It's familiar to him, and yet he can't place a name. 

Bilbo leans forward, peering at the corpse's face. Dead, glassy eyes stare back at him. They're unseeing, and yet they seem to probe at the innermost parts of him. 

"You failed me." The corpse accuses, but its thin lips don't move. Bilbo wants to wrench his gaze away from the grey-tinged pallor of its flesh, but he's frozen in place. "You allowed the royal blood of my kin to water the earth, but not your own?" 

Bilbo tries to answer, to dispute the accusation, but his lips are glued together and he has to work hard to peel them apart. 

"You are a lowly Shire rat. First you steal the Arkenstone, my legacy, and then you steal my life." 

_No!_ Bilbo tries to speak— _I wouldn't, I'd never!_ —but speech has abandoned him in the moment he needs it most.

"It should've been you." Those piercing blue eyes cut him to the quick. 

His body folds in on itself, trying to protect himself from the verbal blows and disparaging comments. An apology sits precariously on his tongue, but he can't manage to utter it. 

"I should've thrown you from the ramparts when I had the choice." 

Those are the words he's feared more than anything. A small part of him has wondered before if Thorin regretted sparing his life. Now he has his answer. 

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry._ He wishes he could say the words, but he also knows they'd have no effect. They'd be a waste of breath, and nothing more. Bilbo's throat works violently. 

A transitory brightness fills his vision, before fading to the sight of a creek, and lone figure lounging in front of it.

"I'm sorry!" he cries, his throat and tongue finally obeying him. Bilbo drops to his knees. They throb from the jarring impact against hard earth.

Thorin rushes to his side, eyes wide with alarm. "What is it? What's wrong?" 

"It's my fault. I'm sorry." 

"What's your fault?" Thorin asks with a gentleness he doesn't deserve. 

"I didn't mean for you to die." 

Thorin's face contorts, his brows clumping together. "Bilbo, I confess I'm very confused." 

Bilbo can't even delight in the fact that Thorin referred to him by name, or allow himself to feel touched by his solicitude. Guilt seizes him in a firm choke-hold. "Please don't be mad at me." 

"I'm not," Thorin assures him vehemently. "You frustrate me very much, but I'm not mad." He lowers himself to the ground beside Bilbo. Their knees are almost touching, but not quite. Always so close, but never close enough. "Tell me what's wrong. I wish to understand." 

He closes his eyes. The image is emblazoned on the backs of his eyelids. "There were bones everywhere, but not yours. You weren't bones. You were a body. And you said," he hiccups, "y-you said you wished you had thrown me from the ramparts." 

"Oh Bilbo." The same blue eyes that had been replete with anger now glisten with unshed tears. "It was a nightmare. It wasn't real." His hands twitch at his sides, as if he wants to reach out and touch, but can't bring himself to do so. Maybe he worries his touch would be unwelcome. 

"It was real," Bilbo contends. "I tried to tell you I was sorry, but I couldn't speak." 

"No, _ghivashel_ , it was a nightmare." 

Bilbo's hiccups turn into full-fledged sobs. _I'm sorry, I'm sorry,_ he thinks. And then he utters, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," aloud. 

The same grief that wears at his heart is reflected back at him on Thorin's normally stern face. “Which flowers are these?” Thorin asks in a feeble, transparent attempt at distracting Bilbo from his nightmare. 

His chest shudders on a shaky inhale as he examines the copious patch of flowers Thorin directs him to. He's almost certain they weren't there a minute ago, and yet they're so bright and so numerous, they should've been impossible to miss. "Carnations." 

“They’re pretty.”

“That’s what you say about every flower.” Bilbo drags a hand across his cheeks. It was soaked with tears only seconds ago, but now there's no dampness to be found. He supposes it's a result of his dream. "My father used to braid them into my mother's hair."

Thorin plucks one of the flowers from the ground, running his thumb over its serrated petals. "Would you like to braid my hair?" he offers.

Bilbo sniffles. Thorin's probably only offering out of politeness, or to satisfy his obligation to keep Bilbo distracted from his nightmare. He accepts regardless. "If you don't mind."

Thorin nods his consent, shifting so that his back is to him. Bilbo folds his legs under him and leans forward. He wills his fingers to stop trembling as he gathers Thorin’s thick curtain of hair in hand. It’s soft, as if he washed it right before arriving in Bilbo’s dream. He can't distinguish a specific scent, only a pervasive cleanness coming from it. He combs his fingers gently through the dark strands, working at the knots and tangles with single-minded focus. 

Thorin winces when he comes into contact with a particularly stubborn knot, but remains silent. Once his hair has been suitably combed, Bilbo divides it into three sections, and begins plaiting it. He gathers carnations in a multitude of colours and weaves them into it. His hands are shaking too badly to style his braid into anything elaborate, so he opts to keep it simple. By the time he's finished, the stabbing ache in his chest has abated. He sits back to admire his work. The pink and purple hued flowers contrast nicely with the darkness of Thorin's black hair. It's seems all too fitting that carnations symbolize fascination and love. They also have the quality of staying fresh and beautiful longer than other flowers.

“How does it look?” Thorin asks, peering over his shoulder. 

It hurts his throat to swallow. “Beautiful.” 

Bilbo wonders distantly how the other dwarves would react if they found their austere king with flowers woven into his hair. He doubts they'd possess the temerity to mock Thorin to his face, but they'd have no qualms snickering behind his back. It would all be good-natured, of course. Their loyalty to Thorin didn't stem solely from obligation, but from a sense of love, as well. Thorin has an innate talent at winning people's hearts. 

Thorin touches the tips of the braid self consciously. A few loose strands have escaped the braid, and they frame the edges of his face like thin brushstrokes of black paint. “Grow out your hair and then I'll braid yours too.”

Bilbo fingers the copper strands of his own hair. It's nearly at his shoulders, and he's long overdue for a haircut. “It's already at an unruly length,” he protests. 

Thorin doesn't seem satisfied by his reasoning. “It's too short to braid at this length." 

“Yes, well, it's not customary for male hobbits to braid their hair.” Bilbo wonders if there's a way to simply dream himself up longer hair. If only he knew how to exert control over these strange dreams of his.

Thorin pouts but doesn't further prod the issue. “I confess I feel foolish being the only one wearing flowers in my hair.” 

He shouldn't feel foolish. He looks lovely. If the elves could see him like this, all gentle and smiling with flower adorned hair, surely even they would be jealous of his beauty. “How about you make me a flower crown?” Bilbo suggests instead. 

Thorin, as it turns out, is utterly hopeless at making flower crowns. Bilbo's seen his large hands tinker away at metal before, so he knows he's capable of fine work. And yet somehow, he can't manage to braid the stems without completely crushing or beheading the flowers.

_Damn._ He really loves him. Despite his gruff nature and his horrid flower crown making skills, Bilbo loves him. A surge of longing wells up in his chest. “Thorin,” he begins tentatively, flushing all the way to the tips of his ears. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.” 

His heart clobbers his ribcage. “I know this is just a dream, and I know it’s not real and it doesn’t mean anything, but you could say it just once?” 

Thorin opens his mouth as if to argue, before forcibly closing it. “What is it you wish me to say?” 

The words slide out in a thick, slow burn. “That you love me.” For a long, agonizing moment, Thorin doesn't react. Bilbo gulps back the taste of bile, and perseveres through the shameful heat in his throat. “Like I said, I know it’s not real, I just-”

“I love you.” Thorin meets his gaze head-on. His stare doesn’t waver or falter. His eyes burn with the incandescent intensity of a blue star. 

Bilbo's chin quivers. It takes every ounce of strength and resolve he possesses not to cry.

“I’ll say it as many times as you wish to hear it.” His fingers tentatively wind around Bilbo's. He gives his hand a little squeeze. “I love you.”

And then, because this is only a dream, because it's not real and there are no consequences or repercussions, Bilbo leans forward and clumsily kisses him. At first he's a bit off the mark, his lips landing at the corner of Thorin's mouth, but his intentions are clear. Thorin aligns their lips properly. Thorin's mouth is soft and plush against his own. He means it to only be a light peck, but he never expected Thorin to kiss back. Soon Bilbo's hands are clutching the soft fabric of Thorin’s shirt while the dwarf cradles the back of his head. 

He wants this so much. He wants it to never end. He forces himself to pull back, ending the kiss before Thorin can, because he doesn't think he could bear it otherwise. His chin wobbles again. He refuses to cry. Not again. 

Thorin tilts his chin upwards with his hand. “Please don't cry, _ghivashel._ ”

There's that word again. Bilbo was too distraught to ask about it earlier. “What does that mean?”

Thorin ducks his head. “Apologies. It’s a word in Khuzdul.”

Bilbo frowns. He’s fairly certain he’s never heard it before. It can’t be a word in Khuzdul then, only a word invented by his subconscious. He doesn't have time to dwell on it for long, because Thorin resumes speaking. 

"I don't want you to ever cry because of me again. Promise me you won't." 

"I don't think I can promise that," Bilbo says weakly. 

"Then just know that I love you." 

Bilbo shoots him another watery smile. _You don't. But thank you for saying it anyway._

* * *

Over the next few days, Bilbo's routine changes. In addition to cooking and baking, gardening and harvesting, he's also taken to touching his lips. He presses his fingers to them repeatedly, imagining he can still feel the ghost of Thorin's mouth on him. They haven't acknowledged the kiss since the night it happened, and he's not entirely sure how to broach the subject. For all he knows, kissing means something different to dwarves. He's seen them touch foreheads as a means of offering comfort, so perhaps kissing is regarded much the same. 

He hopes that's not the case. In between touching his lips, Bilbo plucks apricots from his tree. 

Fresh, morning dew glistens on the grass, and a thin mist hangs in the air. He adds the stone fruits to the growing titian mound in his basket. He could stew them and use them as a filling for pastries, or boil and mash them into a jam for toast. Both normally require added sugar, but he enjoys the natural tartness of apricots. Not everything is sweet. Some flavours are tart and bitter and astringent. In many ways, he prefers them.

Hauling his basket of fruit inside, he turns on the stove and procures a large pot. He presses the knuckles of one hand to his mouth, while he stirs a pot of apricots with the other. A glance at his reflection in the metal pan reveals he has old flour streaked across his face and sampled jam clinging to the sides of his mouth. He looks unkempt and improper, but luckily no one is around to see it. He's to spend second breakfast alone, as per usual. 

Or at least, he intended to. Three loud raps sound on his door, interrupting him from his thoughts. 

"What in the world?" Bilbo throws open the door, half-expecting Lobelia and Otto, or someone equally unpleasant. Instead he's met with three grinning faces.

“Nori.”

“And Ori!”

“And Dori.”

“At your service,” the three of them speak in unison, before dropping into a great synchronized bow. 

His jaw drops. Surely this must be a dream too? 

"Apologies. I know it's not quite four yet, but we were hoping to make good on your invitation for tea." 

"O-of course. Come in." He steps aside, ushering the three brothers inside. 

"If it's not too much of an inconvenience, could we trouble you for some food?" Ori asks. "Erebor is quite a long way from the Shire and we didn't have Bombur cooking for us this time 'round." 

"As a matter of fact, I was just preparing second breakfast." 

"Second?" Nori repeats. 

“Yes, yes, have a seat all of you.”

“What is for second breakfast?” Nori wonders.

“I was just about to make bannocks. It’ll go well with the apricot purée.” Bilbo lays out dishes and a bowl of cream, and quickly whips up the batter, before ladling it onto the griddle. “I’d have strawberries for you all if the birds hadn’t stolen them from my garden.” 

“How will we manage without the strawberries?” Dori groans playfully. 

"Have you any of those apple tarts?" Ori asks.

"Not today I'm afraid. If I'd known in advance about your visit I would have certainly prepared them." 

Ori looks a bit put-out, but his lips curve back into their usual smile once he has a platter of seed cakes set in front of him. 

Once the bannocks are properly cooked, Bilbo takes the flat cakes off the griddle and doles out portions of bacon and fruit to accompany it. 

As the four of them ingest the simple meal, the Ri brothers update him on the status of Erebor. They apprise him of the new trade agreements with the men of Dale, and detail how swiftly Erebor's inner chambers and halls have been rebuilt and remodeled. 

“You should come by and see it some time,” Ori suggests. 

“That sounds nice,” Bilbo lies. His jaw tightens around his next mouthful of food. He shifts in his chair, eager to change the subject. “So, how was your journey here? Not too exciting I hope.”

“We traveled most of the way with some merchants from Dale," Ori answers. "It was convenient journeying in large numbers. We didn't have to worry about being ambushed.” 

Dori loosens a loud belch. “We did come across some elves in Mirkwood, but the red haired she-elf let us pass by without causing too much of a fuss.” 

“She nodded at us,” Ori pipes up. “It was odd. Almost as if we'd done something to earn her respect.” 

_You didn't,_ Bilbo thinks to himself, _but Kíli did._ "I'm glad the elves are being more agreeable," he offers. 

"Never thought I'd see the day," Nori smiles wryly around a large bite of meat. 

"What about you, Master Baggins? Have you been very well?" 

He doubts they'd care to hear about his nightmares, or that he's still very much in the process of mourning. "As well as is to be expected." 

They enquire politely about his life at Bag End, and he regales them with the jarring experience of returning to find his house had been ransacked. They're outraged on his behalf, pounding their fists on the table and muttering threats to enact vengeance. 

“If those Sackville-Bagginses were dwarves their beards would've been shorn for such betrayal,” Dori announces.

He's rather touched by their concern, but at the suggestion that Lobelia possesses a beard, Bilbo dissolves into a fit of giggles. That would certainly be an interesting sight to behold! 

After they've finished their meal, Bilbo boils water for tea and selects a single slice of rye bread to whet the remainder of his appetite. 

“Oh, I almost forgot.” He doesn’t look up from the bread he’s buttering. “I wanted to ask about something. By any chance is ‘ghivashel’,” he winces at his pronunciation, “a word in Khuzdul?” 

When his query his met with silence, Bilbo chances a look up. The three dwarves look properly shocked, their eyes impossibly wide and their brows shooting upwards. If Bilbo didn’t know better, he’d almost assume they practiced the expression beforehand; the three brothers wear their shock almost identically. 

“Where did you hear that?” Dori wonders, finally regaining use of his tongue. 

“From Thori-” Bilbo cuts himself off. Idiot! He curses himself. Of course he didn’t actually hear it from Thorin. He dreamt the entire encounter. 

“Thorin called you that?” Ori confirms. 

“Is... is it something bad?” Bilbo wonders. “What does it mean?” 

The three brothers exchange a look. Bilbo’s stomach writhes painfully. Their reactions seem to indicate the word is derogatory. Maybe Thorin meant it as a playful insult? Not that it matters how the Thorin present in his dreams meant it, given that he’s only a figment of Bilbo's subconscious. 

“I always said there was something between them,” Nori cackles, finally breaking the terse atmosphere.

“It wasn’t just you! We all thought it,” Dori argues. “It was obvious.” 

“What was obvious?” Bilbo interrupts. “Can someone please explain it to me?” 

Ori smiles and pats Bilbo's arm gently. “Ghivashel is a word in our language that translates to ‘treasure of all treasures.’ It’s a term of endearment.” 

Bilbo gnaws on a dry patch of skin on his lower lip. If it's an actual word in their language, then how, exactly, did he hear it in his dream? He feels as if he’s teetering on a precipice, right on the verge of some sort of grand discovery. He can’t make sense of it. It’s not possible to dream of words one hasn’t encountered prior. He can’t read the dwarven language, so the only logical explanation is that he heard it sometime on their journey.

“Don’t leave out the best part.” Nori leans forwards, his elbow glancing the butter dish. The only word adequate for Nori’s expression is coquettish. “ _Ghivashel_ is a term almost exclusively used between lovers.” 

Bilbo's heart-rate picks up precipitously. “Did… did someone else use that word during our quest?” he wonders. He can't recall ever hearing that word outside of his dreams, but he must have. He must have heard it at some point during their journey for his subconscious to have retained it. 

“It’s possible,” Ori allows. 

“But unlikely,” Nori pipes up. “Seeing as no one else in the company were lovers, we’d have no reason to use it.” 

“It doesn’t make sense.” Bilbo stares numbly at his plate of food. For possibly the first time in his life, he has no appetite. 

“Thorin cared for you very much,” Dori explains gently. “He wasn’t always very tactful, but it was clear he held you close to his heart.” 

"I... I think you must be mistaken," he says faintly.

Nori licks his lips. "Even when he suspected the rest of us of treachery, he never suspected you." 

That much is true. He never questioned Bilbo's intentions, even though he certainly should have. Bilbo scrunches his eyes shut. A single word loops in his mind. _Ghivashel._

He doesn't understand. Where did he hear that word before? He must have at some point, and yet he can't recall it. The dwarves are wary of outsiders, and even once they'd accepted Bilbo as a member of their company, they didn't actively speak Khuzdul in his presence. Their language is precious to them; not meant for other races to use. The most he remembers hearing are battle cries. But terms of endearment? Not so much. 

His heart pounds out a bruising staccato. If he didn't hear the word 'ghivashel' before Thorin mentioned it in his dreams, the only logical conclusion is that he _wasn't_ dreaming. Or, if he was dreaming, that the real Thorin was somehow also there. The very same Thorin who was killed by Azog, who died in Bilbo's arms, has somehow managed to enter his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I post about updates on my tumblr [@vintage--lilacs](https://vintage--lilacs.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a forewarning, this chapter involves drugged tea, but not for malicious purposes.

Air rushes in Bilbo's ears. He feels as though he’s falling, tumbling through empty space. _A term used between lovers._ His mind grasps at alternate possibilities, searching for a reasonable explanation as to how he first heard 'ghivashel' in his dream. The only way such a thing could be possible is if it were not, in fact, a dream, but something more. 

"You alright? You looked a wee bit pale there.” 

Dori's voice stabilizes him, reminding him where he is. The kitchen feels too big and too small at once. He considers requesting a moment of privacy, but he also doesn't know if he can manage being alone just yet. "Yes," Bilbo swiftly assures him, and while he knows he's the one speaking, the word seems to come from someone else. "Fine. I'm fine."

“We know it’s hard. We’re all still grievin’.”

“Lady Dís especially,” Ori adds sadly.

Bilbo blinks up at the youngest of the brothers. “Who?” 

“Fíli and Kíli’s mother," he clarifies. "And Thorin’s younger sister.” The Thorin in his dreams hadn’t mentioned a sister. Maybe there's a chance that the incident with 'ghivashel' was some sort of odd coincidence. A singular event that won't be repeated again. 

"Did Thorin ever have any other siblings?” Bilbo wonders, uncertain which answer he even wants to hear, or which one would bring him the least amount of grief. 

“Aye, a younger brother,” Dori confirms. 

Bilbo knows the name even before it's said.

“Frerin. He perished in the battle of—" __

_Azanulbizar,_ Bilbo thinks.

"—Azanulbizar," Dori finishes. 

How could he have dreamt about a dwarven endearment _and_ the name of Thorin’s brother? Coincidences like that don't happen, and Bilbo's never shown any propensity for clairvoyance. It's simply not possible. He places the remaining half of his bread back on his plate. He doesn't think he'll have any appetite for a long time. 

Conversation gradually shifts away from the subject of Thorin, and for that Bilbo is grateful. The brothers continue to discuss the splendor of Erebor in length, before sharing anecdotes from their youth. 

"You and Nori have quit a bit in common, you know," Dori remarks. 

"Oh?" Bilbo's surprised to hear that. Aside from their fondness of regular and plentiful meals, he hasn't felt much of a kinship between him and Nori. 

"He was something of a burglar himself in his youth. Always getting in trouble with the authorities." 

"Please," Nori scoffs. "They hardly ever caught me." 

"What kind of things would you steal?" Bilbo wonders. 

Nori waves a dismissive hand that is immediately contradicted by the gloating smirk on his face. "Nothing of real consequence." 

"He never stole from a dragon, that's for sure!" Ori chimes in. 

"What was scarier, Master Baggins?" Nori questions. His tenor changes from smug to curious. "Stealing from Smaug, or from Thorin?" 

Bilbo coughs, trying to fight the tremor that's intent on entering his voice. "Well, I was certainly more fearful for my life stealing from Smaug, but—" he cuts himself off, realizing he's not even sure what he's planning to say. When he stole from Smaug, his heart had been liable to burst from his chest. Stealing from Thorin had been an entirely different sort of agony. He'd felt sick with guilt for days. He'd had so many chances to confess what he'd done, but instead of surrendering the Arkenstone, he'd met each and every one of Thorin's smiles, and lied straight to his face. What kind of traitor was worse than one who betrayed a loved one? "Stealing from Thorin," he manages eventually, "made me fear for something much greater than my life." 

"And what was that?" Ori's eyes are wide and guileless. He's not trying to be cruel, and he's likely not even aware of how deeply his questioning cuts Bilbo. 

"I... I'm not sure." His throat tightens to the size of a pinprick. He can't access enough oxygen to breathe, let alone speak. 

"That's enough o' that," Dori chides. "Master Baggins has better things to do all day than entertain us." He shifts so that his eyes are fully centered on Bilbo's. "Is there anything we could help you with." 

Bilbo is able to contrive a tiny smile. "I could certainly use help fertilizing the grass." 

The rest of the day passes in a daze. He and the Ri brothers continue to exchange stories and discuss the differences in their customs, but Bilbo feels somewhat removed from the conversation. The majority of his responses are monosyllabic, and he only processes fragments of what he's told. It's almost like being half-asleep. 

When Bilbo chops pork for dinner, his inattentiveness earns him a small cut on his hand. He does a sloppy job bandaging it, and of course the brothers fuss over him. Except for Nori. He's too amused by Bilbo's clumsiness to offer any succour.

Bilbo surrenders his master bed for the brothers to use that night. He's nothing if not a gracious host. 

Once he's confident they're all asleep, he slinks into his study to compose a letter. Bilbo's limbs feel like wet laundry left out on a cold day: pendulous and limp. Unfortunately, he still has a matter to attend to before he can allow himself respite. He grips his feathered quill in a white-knuckled fist. He wonders how much pressure is needed for it to snap. He makes a conscious effort to relax his hold, and takes great care to blot the ink, tapping in to his last reserve of focus. 

_Dear Gandalf_  
_What do you know of recurring dreams in which you're visited by someone you know to be dead? I could use answers if you have them._  
_Your confused friend,_  
_Bilbo Baggins of Bag End_

Bilbo assesses his careful, deliberate lettering, before folding the parchment and tucking it into an old, tea-stained envelope. He has every intention of mailing it off the first chance he gets. If the old wizard isn't able to elucidate his strange dreams, he doubts anyone will be able to. 

Bilbo pillows his head on his arms, ruminating over everything he's learned. Thorin has a sister. Thorin called him his 'treasure of all treasures.' Thorin is real. Thorin knew the truth and didn't tell him. 

Bilbo plans on migrating to his couch for the night, but ends up falling into a deep sleep hunched over his writing desk. 

* * *

That night when he dreams, it takes longer for Thorin to arrive. Bilbo agonizes over what he’s going to say. His pleasant routine has been uprooted once more. The matter of the kiss between him and Thorin weighed heavily enough on his mind, but now he has to grapple with the very real possibility that the kiss was shared with the actual Thorin. Who, he might add, died in his arms and only reconciled with him in his final moments. 

Bilbo taps his feet impatiently, oblivious to the sharp thistles that have begun sprouting around him. Dark clouds amass overhead, and he half expects lightning to ripple across the sky. It would seem all too fitting. 

"Bilbo?" Thorin's voice is tentative and faltering, and almost enough to mitigate the tempest of anger and hurt flooding his senses. 

He grinds his teeth together. "I know." 

"What do you know?" he asks cautiously. 

Bilbo's hands curl into small fists at his side. His blunt nails dig into the flesh of his palms. "You're not a dream," he accuses. "You're the real Thorin Oakenshield." 

Thorin shuffles his feet, but he has the gall to look unapologetic. “I did try to tell you. I said we were connected.” 

“Well you didn't try hard enough!” Bilbo snaps in a fit of pique. He stalks towards him. The height difference between them has never seemed more insignificant. Thorin somehow manages to look like the smaller of the two, as if he's sinking into the very earth. “I thought you were just a dream, that I was imagining you. Do you have any idea how hard that was? I thought your entire presence here was only because I was in denial about your death.”

"I tried at first to tell you. I didn't know how to broach the subject again." 

"You could've made an attempt. Did you even try again after that first time?" It's not fair. Anyone in Bilbo's position would've been skeptical. How could he have know Thorin was real and not mere wish fulfillment? 

Thorin bows his head. "I did not know how to explain." 

"Then you had better figure it out now," Bilbo intones, his voice molten steel. 

Thorin licks his lips. The very lips that Bilbo had pressed against his own not too long ago. “We have a word for it in Khuzdul, but I do not know how to translate it into Westron.” 

"Try," Bilbo orders. 

He hesitates. “There is an ancient and somewhat obscure dwarvish legend. It states that there are three planes of existence. There is life, there is the afterlife, and there is the between that bridges them together.”

“And the between is… what? Dreams?” 

"Of that I'm uncertain. The legend tells of a widow who would meet her departed husband while she was asleep." 

That's all good and well, but it doesn't explain their current arrangement. "You're not my husband," Bilbo helpfully points out. 

"I am aware," Thorin returns, a bite of impatience starting to filter through his own words. 

"Why can I see you? Have you visited any of the others?" 

"No. It's only you. It's only ever you." 

Bilbo’s heart and mind war with each other. He feels simultaneous elation and heartbreak, but they're muted in comparison to the anger that sparks along his nerves. 

Thorin’s eyebrows crowd together . “You're… angry.”

His cheek twitches. “Of course I'm angry!” 

Thorin bears a remarkable similarity to a kicked dog. “Would it have changed anything? Knowing it was me all along, and not a dream?” 

Bilbo lets out a harsh bark of laughter, before dragging his arm over his eyes. Eru, he's so embarrassed. What a pathetic image he must have made, begging for the comfort of a lie, for Thorin to confess feelings that weren't even genuine. Thorin must have pitied him so much. “For starters, I wouldn't have asked you to tell me you love me!” 

Thorin stumbles back, his eyes going wide and the line of his mouth actually quivering a little. Thorin Oakenshield, the dwarf who did not quail in the face of orcs or goblins, but who shied away from a few words uttered by a tiny, insignificant hobbit. Bilbo's seen that particular expression on his face before. It's the exact look of shock and heartbreak that he'd worn when he'd discovered Bilbo's betrayal. It was the precursor to the fury that the dwarf had spouted when he threatened to throw Bilbo from the ramparts, but somehow this image hurts Bilbo more. 

"I think I should go," Thorin murmurs.

"What? No, no, don't you dare!" He tries to reach for him, but his hands close around empty smoke. “You confounded dwarf!” Bilbo cries. How could Thorin run away like a coward? He'd only just found out that Thorin was real. He'd only just gotten him back. How could he leave him again? 

Bilbo wraps his arms around himself. Thorny vines coil around his ankles, piercing through the strong callouses on his feet. A shudder skitters down his spine as he wonders if he's ruined everything for good. He can't imagine Thorin will be eager to see him again, and if that's the case, their final meeting will have ended without even so much as a goodbye. 

* * *

"Master Baggins?" Ori knocks on his door for courtesy's sake, before pushing it open far enough to peek his head in.

Bilbo's head shoots up, his dreams melting away in to the harsh brightness of morning. He winces at the crick in his neck. Tracks of drool have dried at the corners of his mouth, and his clothes are rumpled from sleep.

"I'm sorry to trouble you, but I was wondering if you had any plans for breakfast, or if you'd permit us to go through your pantry?" 

Bilbo's lips stretch into a thin smile at this. A year ago, the dwarves wouldn't have asked for permission; they would've simply gone ahead and consumed every edible item on his shelves. "Yes, yes, I'll start breakfast in a moment. I simply need to wash up first." 

Ori assesses Bilbo's disheveled appearance and the slightly-slurred quality of his words. "Oh! Master Baggins, please excuse me. I hadn't realized you were still sleeping. W-we'd assumed you'd woken up already and were in here to write." 

"It's fine," he assures him. "I only need a few minutes." 

"Of course!" Ori gives an entirely unnecessary bow before retreating from the room. 

Bilbo changes into fresh garments and washes up, before arranging a hearty breakfast. If the brothers notice that his own portion is significantly smaller than usual, they don't comment. 

After breakfast, Bilbo mails his letter to Gandalf and escorts the Ri brothers on a tour of the Shire. The presence of the three dwarves earns them multiple surreptitious glances, but none of the other hobbits pay them too much mind. It would seem they're used to Bilbo's strangeness by now. 

The brothers are very polite as he shows them around, but he can tell they're underwhelmed by the simplicity of Hobbiton. 

"If you ever plan on redesigning your home, let us know," Dori offers after Bilbo explains their homes were designed for comfort's sake and little else. 

"We could make archways for you!" Ori enthuses. "And build you an outdoor greenhouse. And statues." 

"What statues would you even make?" Bilbo wonders with a laugh. 

"We can build one of you." 

Oh. Oh, no. That sounds horribly pretentious. "I really don't think anyone would want to see a statue of me," Bilbo says with a self-deprecating laugh. 

"Why not?" 

"You were our burglar; you're worthy of a monument!" 

"No, no, that's really okay." Try as he might, the brothers are resolute in their plans of erecting a sculpture of him. 

"Next time we visit, we'll bring the proper supplies for it. A gold statue should suffice." 

_"Gold?_ " These dwarves are out of their minds! 

"And I'm sure the rest of the company will want to help. The statue should be at least thirty feet." 

"Really, that's not necessary."

"Apologies Master Baggins," Dori says with a sly smile. "But it's already decided." 

"Wonderful," he sighs. 

* * *

The Ri brothers stay for another week, before making plans to sojourn at an inn in Bree.

"You're welcome to stay longer," Bilbo insists, but Nori waves him off. 

"Any longer and we'd have eaten you out of your house." 

Funny how they didn't have any qualms doing just that the first time they met. 

Dori claps him on the shoulder. "You take care of yourself, Master Burglar."

"Yes, yes," he says hurriedly. "You all as well. Are you sure you don't want to stay another night? It's already noon and Bree is miles away." 

"We'll be traveling on horseback," Ori points out. "And we've already overstayed our welcome." 

Bilbo assures them that they haven't, not in the least. If anything, he's been a subpar host with how absentminded and distant he's been. None of them have commented on his frequent reveries, but he's sure they've noticed he's been some what off. It's been hard reigning in his thoughts lately. He hasn't seen Thorin once since their argument, and a broken part of him suspects he never will again. 

Once the dwarves have departed with copious snacks and restored food rations, Bilbo perches on his armchair and seeks out the company of an old book. He loses himself in the pages of an Elvish tale, and only comes back to himself when he hears a firm knock on his door. 

It can't have been more then a couple hours since the Ri brothers left. Bilbo chuckles to himself. The brothers have probably forgotten some battle accessory behind. Or want to ask for more food for their journey ahead.

Bilbo throws open the front door, but it's not to the sight of any dwarves. Instead, he's met with the slightly stooped figure of Gandalf the Grey.

“Would you care to join me?” the wizard asks, holding up his pipe the way a general would wave a white flag. 

His mouth eases into a smile. “Depends," he crosses his ankles casually. "What have you got to smoke?” 

“Will Longbottom Leaf suffice?” 

“I have half a mind to close this door in your face,” Bilbo clucks his tongue. 

“Ah, as I suspected. Old Toby it is.” Gandalf's eyes narrow almost imperceptibly, but after their journey together, Bilbo's developed a knack for detecting the subtle nuances in the old wizard's expression. 

"What?" he demands, somewhat defensively. 

“I noticed Southlinch in your wheelbarrow. I hadn't realized you were fond of it.” 

“I'm not. It's vile.” 

“A strange purchase, in that case. Unless your wheelbarrow is where you store gifts?”

“Thorin likes Southlinch,” he explains quietly, dropping his gaze to his feet. The thatch of hair on the tops of his feet are in need of a careful grooming. 

“I know.” 

Bilbo fetches his own pipe from the adjoining room, before settling beside his old friend outside. For a while they sit in companionable silence, occupying themselves by watching the curling eddies of smoke from their pipes. 

“You look as if you've been sleeping well,” Gandalf comments in a mild voice. 

Bilbo bristles. “And what do you mean by that?” If Gandalf isn't going to speak plainly, then neither is he. 

“That was quite the letter you sent me, Bilbo Baggins.” Gandalf exhales a plume of smoke that curls and takes the shape of a butterfly. “I admit I was intrigued.” 

“Still took your time getting here,” he huffs, though in truth Gandalf actually arrived rather quickly. 

Bilbo prepares himself for Gandalf’s usual spiel that a wizard is never late, and arrives precisely when he is meant to. It never comes. 

“I thought it prudent to speak with Master Elrond first. Are you certain the visitor in your dreams was not merely a figment of your imagination?"

"If you'd asked me a week ago, I wouldn't have an answer for you. But I'm quite sure now." His voice rings with conviction. There's no other explanation. It's Thorin. It's always been Thorin. 

"I expected as much. And the visitor?" 

He averts his gaze. "Thorin of course." 

"Of course," Gandalf echoes. "I anticipated as much."

"What did you and Master Elrond discuss?"

"As it happens, there have been others before you who have claimed to have experienced the same phenomena.” 

Bilbo picks at a hangnail. “If this is something dwarves can do, why has no one ever mentioned it?” 

“It's not exclusive to dwarves,” Gandalf answers. 

“Then how does it happen? If it's a common occurrence, surely it would be spoken of more?”

“It's not common. It's exceedingly rare." Gandalf pauses to gauge Bilbo's reaction. "It's been speculated that only those with bonded souls may enter into another's dream.”

“Bonded souls,” Bilbo echoes faintly. He’s witnessed spells performed by wizards, encountered a living dragon, possesses a magic ring that turns him invisible, and yet this is the first revelation that truly strikes him as surreal. He sits up straighter. “I don't understand. We—Thorin and I—had an argument a week ago and I haven't seen him since. And during the trip back to Bag End, I didn't dream of him once.” 

"The mind is an exceptionally private place. Sharing dreams requires a total willingness from both parties."

Bilbo takes another puff of his pipe, letting Gandalf’s words permeate. “If our souls are," he pauses. It sounds horribly twee, but he can't think of an equivalent term, " _bonded,_ what does it mean?”

“It could mean any number of things.”

He only just manages not to roll his eyes. “Don't give me that.”

“I'm not going to pretend to be an expert. I suspect these abnormal dreams of yours are an indication that you and Master Oakenshield share an unusually rare and strong bond. There's a powerful type of magic to be found in such a connection.”

Bilbo’s stomach does a funny lurch. “Strange how we supposedly have such a strong bond. I mean, he did try to kill me once because I stole a shiny rock from him.”

Gandalf takes a deep, cogitating puff from his pipe. “If you'll recall, he was suffering from dragon sickness at the time, and saw your actions as the most severe betrayal possible. I also suspect the betrayal hurt him precisely _because_ it came from you.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“He gave you mithril, Bilbo. Did you never wonder what that meant?” 

The small shirt of mithril still hangs in his dresser, hidden behind his other clothes. It hurts too much to look at it, like staring directly at the sun. "It was armour. All the dwarves had armour."

"That mithril was the second most precious item in Erebor's treasure trove, and Thorin gave it to you even while under a malady that caused irrational greed." Gandalf's eyes are full of sympathy as they take in Bilbo's quavering expression. "That thick-headed fool of a dwarf loved you, Bilbo. As much as anyone can love another." 

"Right," he clears his throat. He wishes he could believe those words. Gandalf is sorely mistaken, but he really doesn't feel like arguing about that right now. "Gandalf, what if I never see him again?" 

"Why wouldn't you?" 

Bilbo's breath hitches and his eyes sting. He's about to dissolve into a fit of tears in front of Gandalf the Grey, and he's not sure if he's ever going to live this down. "We fought and he left me." 

"In that case, all you can really do is prepare for the worst and hope for the best." 

He plows on, ignoring the wizard's advice. "I didn't get to say goodbye. I yelled at him and then he left and he hasn't come back. I'm scared to sleep at night because if I sleep and I don't see him, it means he really is gone." 

"When was the last time you had a full night's rest?" Gandalf questions.

"I'm not sure," he admits. "Lately it takes me several hours to fall asleep. And all of my dreams at night are just ordinary dreams." Bilbo sets down his pipe and searches his pockets for a handkerchief. His fingers shake and he almost drops the piece of cloth in his haste to blow his nose. "Why won't he come back?" 

Gandalf smiles gently, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Let me make you a cup of tea." 

"What?" He sniffles. "Oh, no. No, you're the guest. I should be making you a cup." 

Gandalf leans his weight on his staff as he clambers to his feet. Something about him seems older. His movements are weary, as if every bone in his body weighs him down. "Please, allow me. I think it will help." He ducks inside the main foyer, and Bilbo trails dutifully behind, feeling rather like their roles of guest and host have switched. 

Gandalf makes himself at home in Bilbo's kitchen, even though he's a tad too large for the appliances. He hums as the water boils, seemingly oblivious to Bilbo's discomfort. 

“Do you want anything to eat?” he offers. His parents would be appalled if they could see him now. Really, having tea made for him in his own home by a guest. It was terrible manners on his part. “I could make… cakes, or scones.”

“That’s quite alright, Bilbo.” Steam billows from the kettle as he pours it into a large mug. "How do you take your tea?" 

"Hmm? Oh, milk and two sugars," he decides. He could use the extra sweetness today. 

Gandalf hands him a steaming cup, before ushering him to the sofa. He notices Gandalf doesn't take a seat. 

"Are you not having any?" Bilbo asks. 

He shakes his head. "Not today." 

The outside of the mug is hot to the touch. Bilbo blows on the tea idly, before chancing a small sip. It's plain black tea, but there's a hint of something else, some other flavour he can't quite identify. He takes a second sip, but he still can't discern what the flavour is. He doesn't recognize this brand of tea from the array in his kitchen. 

"I hope you don't mind. I added something to it." 

Bilbo's fingers slacken around the mug of tea, and he narrowly avoids spilling it. Gandalf takes the mug from him and carefully sets it down on a coaster. "If you wish to see Thorin, perhaps you should try inviting him first." 

"Gandalf," his tongue feels thick. "What'd you..." 

Mellow, golden light suffuses his vision. Everything is lighter. Softer. Blurred at the edges. 

A kind voice envelops him like a well-loved blanket. He's not sure which direction the voice comes from, or who it belongs to. "Sleep well, Bilbo Baggins."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to split this chapter into two parts because it was starting to get pretty long so I hope it's ok so far <3


	5. Chapter 5

Awareness comes back to Bilbo in shaky, rippling waves. The first thing he registers is the sweet fragrance of wildflowers, followed by the gentle burble of a nearby brook. He wrenches his eyes open, instantly greeted by a soft, rose-hued sky festooned with sunset drenched clouds. 

His eyes rove rapidly about. A honeybee settles onto a clover, and a faintly glowing dragonfly whizzes past. The sun is dipping beneath the horizon, its dying colours bathing everything in an aureate light. 

When did sunset start? It was still sometime in the afternoon, of that he's certain.

Bilbo struggles to orient himself. His thoughts are sluggish, and reluctant to obey. He stumbles towards the stream, seeking comfort under the dappled shade of the trees. 

He can't remember how he got here, or where 'here' even is. The only logical conclusion is that he's dreaming, and yet, when had he retired for bed? He has no memory of slipping into his nightclothes or pulling his covers around himself. The last thing he remembers is drinking tea prepared for him by Gandalf and— _oh_. 

That damned, meddlesome wizard! Had Gandalf seriously just... spiked his tea? With some sort of sleeping draught? 

His jaw unhinges in shock, even though there's no one around to see it. Gandalf's never been one to adhere to the niceties of social etiquette, but this is crossing an entirely new sort of boundary. Seriously, drugging him within the comfort of his own home? Bilbo lacks a strong enough word to encompass just how ill-mannered such a thing is. Inviting dwarves and guilting him into taking part in a dangerous adventure was one thing, but lacing his tea with a sleeping draught? 

Bilbo forcibly closes his mouth, his teeth immediately grinding together. He resolves to exchange some choice words with Gandalf as soon as he wakes up. And perhaps show him exactly how resourceful hobbits can be in a fight. 

What had Gandalf even hoped to achieve in putting him to sleep? Sure, he'd been having difficulty sleeping at night, but that didn't warrant what Gandalf had done. He won't pretend to understand the wizard's rationale, but he'd like to have an inkling as to why he'd gone to such extreme measures without a bit of advanced warning. 

He stares out at the water, running through their conversation in his mind. Even with the sunlight starting to wane, the stream glints as if its surface is buried beneath a layer of liquid diamond. 

_"If you wish to see Thorin, perhaps you should try inviting him first."_

Could it really be so simple? He highly doubts it. Still, there must have been a reason behind Gandalf's actions, aside from forcing him to rest. 

He mentally steels himself. If this does't work, then he supposes Thorin truly is gone. Permanently, this time. He doesn't even want to consider the possibly, but he can only hide under the comfort of denial for so long. 

"Thorin?" He calls out timidly. His voice is rusty, and he coughs to clear it. He repeats Thorin's name, louder this time, instilled with a confidence he doesn't truly feel.

Not even the birds deign to answer him. He's always reveled in silence, but now the quiet carries a deafening weight. 

"Thorin, please. Please come back. I'm sorry for losing my temper." 

He swivels, taking in the full breadth of his surroundings. His lungs fail him, and his chest seizes up. His grief feels like an exposed nerve, leaving him raw and in unwavering pain. If Thorin is gone forever, then what was the point of any of it? The dreams, their conversations and laughter, the kiss they shared. What purpose did the universe have in building up his hope only to destroy it? 

"Please don't be gone." 

He blinks rapidly, trying to clear his blurred vision. At first he assumes the shimmery quality to the air is due to the film of tears in his eyes, but it's not. His surroundings flicker like some sort of mirage.

A shocked noise escapes his throat, somewhere between a sob and a laugh. "You're here."

Thorin eyes him warily. "You did call for me," he points out, his voice uncharacteristically nervous. 

Bilbo licks his lips. "Yes, that I did." 

"Why?"

"Why?" Bilbo echoes. "What do you mean why?" 

"Why would you wish to see me?" 

He doesn't have an answer for that. It's one of those things that's so obvious, it shouldn't need to be spoken. He doesn't even know how to put it to words. He drops his eyes to his lap, unable to meet the blazing intensity of Thorin's probing stare. "I always want to see you. That's why I was so upset last time when you left." 

"The reason I left was because you were upset with me," he counters. 

Bilbo winces. "Yes, I understand that. But Thorin, you have to understand, when you died, I felt—" _hollowed out and empty_ "—bereft. Next time, please don't do that. Don't leave. If I'm unfair to you or angry without cause, be mad! If I yell, you yell back.”

“I have no right to anger," Thorin interrupts, before Bilbo can finish sucking in his next breath. "After all I've done to you...”

Bilbo knows immediately what Thorin's referencing. The memory of his feet dangling through empty air with a deadly drop beneath him still makes his heart pound. “You were sick at the time," he protests. "That wasn't your fault. I don't have that excuse. I lashed out without hearing your side.” He's on the verge of tears once more. “It's okay to be mad at me. Just please don't run away.”

Thorin's shoulders hunch inwards. "I regretted leaving, but I could not face your anger."

Bilbo swallows convulsively. "I understand. I just can't stand it when you leave like that. I was scared you weren't going to come back."

"I tried," Thorin says quietly. "The next night, I tried to find my way back to you, but it was as if that pathway was blocked. I knew then that I was no longer welcome." 

"But you _are_ welcome here." He worries his lip until a bead of blood wells up. "I suppose that at the time I wasn't yet ready to face you. But I am now." 

"I'm glad," Thorin admits. 

Oh, how he hates this. This tiptoeing around each other, as if the distance between them is as delicate and brittle as spun sugar. He wants to return to the place they were at when he braided Thorin's hair, when they shared stories of their youth and basked in each other's company. 

"Um, Thorin, last time I meant to tell you—I had visitors from the company. Though come to think of it, I've had a lot of visitors lately. Gandalf came to see me too, but it ended with him drugging me." Why he's mentioning that now, he has no idea. He rambles when he's nervous, and he's definitely out of sorts at the moment. 

"He _what_?" Thorin's eyes spark with fury. "Did I not say Tharkûn was not to be trusted? If he has brought harm to you, I—"

"Thorin, I'm okay," Bilbo hastily assures him. Why had he even brought that up at all? "Really, I'm sure he did it out of some misguided attempt at helping me. And that's not really what I wanted to discuss. The, um, first visitors I had were Ori, Nori, and Dori." 

Thorin's anger softens, his eyes hopeful and earnest. “The Ri brothers. Are they well?”

“Yes, yes of course.” 

Thorin looks so relieved at that. It makes Bilbo's heart feel as though it's constricting. 

"They're actually how I found out that you're real. They explained what ‘ghivashel’ means.” 

Thorin tenses. “Ah.” 

“What did you mean by it, Thorin? Was it… did you misspeak? Or confuse me with someone else?” Bilbo had asked him to lie and confess his love, and not long after, Thorin had taken to calling him a dwarvish endearment. How far was he willing to entertain Bilbo’s yearning heart and the unrequited love it contains? "Were you just humoring me when you called me that?" 

Bilbo wishes he could decipher what emotions are masked by Thorin's stoic expression, and understand what's hidden beneath his carefully wrought defenses. 

Thorin's lips compress into a thin light as he deliberates. He chooses his words carefully, taking a lengthy amount of time to consider what to say. “I meant what I said," he announces eventually. He looks several shades paler than usual, but his voice is firm. “You are my greatest treasure.”

Greater than the Arkenstone? Bilbo wants to ask. He almost does, but he can’t stand being so cruel, and doesn't dare risk fracturing their already delicate relationship. His eyes water. He remembers standing close to Smaug’s fire, how his eyes had burned and watered. They feel like that now, like he’s standing close to an immense heat. 

“Don’t cry,” Thorin pleads. He begins to reach for Bilbo, but ultimately thinks better of it. He’s uncertain, not sure of his place. If his efforts would be welcomed or rebuffed. 

A sob sneaks its way out of Bilbo. He chooses to bridge the distance between them, all but throwing himself into Thorin’s capable arms. He breathes him in, inhaling the heady musk of wood-smoke and the less savoury odour of Southlinch.

“They blame themselves, you know. Nori, Ori, and Dori,” he clarifies in between sniffles.

He feels a slight pang of loss when Thorin pulls away. “Whatever for?” Thorin looks genuinely bewildered. 

“Your death.” Bilbo's throat tightens. “Fíli and Kíli’s deaths. We all felt responsible.” 

"Then you are all foolish," Thorin chides. His voice is thick, clogged with emotion, but lacking in any real anger or irritation. "I owe you and the company so much. Don't blame yourselves. Doing so is a great disrespect." 

"Do you ever see them? Your nephews?" Bilbo wonders. 

"More than I'd like," Thorin answers. It startles a snort out of Bilbo. 

"That's... _Thorin!_ You shouldn't say that." 

"It's the truth. Even in death I'm granted no respite from their immature carousing." 

"They still tease you?" he asks. 

"All the time!" Thorin closes his eyes wearily, as if the mere mention of his nephews is enough to induce a headache. "All I ever hear is 'uncle, did you visit your burglar again' or 'uncle, stop frowning, you look like somebody died.' They're insufferable."

Thorin looks mildly offended when instead of commiserating with him, Bilbo merely laughs. "That does sound like them." He looks up at Thorin through his lashes. "So, I'm _your_ burglar, am I?" 

Thorin ducks his head. "It was their wording; not mine." 

"They're very perceptive. I am, you know." 

"You're what?" Thorin prompts. 

_"Yours."_ He takes Thorin's broad palm and turns it over, examining every crevice and fissure in his skin. He's solid and tangible and real. Finally, he alights his own hand on Thorin's face, tilting it towards him. "Is it alright if... I mean, may I..." 

"Yes," Thorin breathes. 

He rises onto his tiptoes, tightening his hold on Thorin for balance. He feels a tug in his gut, an unseen magnetic pull. Their lips crash together like the ocean tide colliding with the shore. It's a force of nature that rocks him to his very core. Their second kiss is just like their first one, and yet not like it at all. It's gentle and fierce, tentative and passionate, comfort and hunger all at once. 

Their lips slide and move together in a perfect balance of taking and offering. He doesn't ever want this connection to sever, but eventually his shortness of breath and lightheadedness urges him to pull away. 

"Ghivashel." Thorin presses his nose into Bilbo's hair. "Gêdel." 

"What does that mean?" 

“It means you are my joy of all joys.” 

It's too much. The tenderness of Thorin's voice, the adoration in his gaze. He wants this all the time. He wants to wake up to Thorin beside him. He wants to fall asleep cocooned against his body. He wants to cook for him and prepare hobbit delicacies for him. He wants to garden together, and bicker over housework, and share every waking moment. 

“Why," he whispers. "Why did you have to die?" 

Thorin reaches for him, his arms encircling his waist. They cling to each other as if their lives depend on it. But their lives don’t depend on it, of course. Not when Bilbo is the only one of them who is actually alive. 

Bilbo convulses around a wave of sobs. “I just don't understand it. You're real. You're actually here. So why can't I bring you back with me?” 

“Please don't cry," Thorin begs, his large frame trembling. "I have caused you so much grief already.”

“I'll cry if I wish to, and not a teardrop more,” Bilbo declares. He's entitled to his grief, even if there seems to be an overabundance of it. 

Thorin cups his cheek, stroking gently over his cheekbone. “All the same, I would prefer if you never shed a tear again. I want you to be happy. Tell me what I can do." 

Bilbo’s throat closes inwards. “Please keep holding me.”

Thorin gathers him against his chest, holding him with an almost suffocating strength. Bilbo presses his mouth to Thorin's pulsepoint. His heartbeat thrums: a mocking facsimile of what once was. 

“I wish I could bring you back with me, into the real world," Bilbo murmurs. 

"I wish for that too, he confesses. "But having you here is more than enough for me." 

"I wish we could grow old together in Bagend.” Bilbo knows, logically, that were Thorin still alive, he'd likely be in Erebor running his kingdom, and not in Bagend with him. Still, Bilbo can dream. He laces their hands together, before bring Thorin's knuckles to his lips. And dream he does. 

* * *

Bilbo awakes with dwarvish endearments still echoing in his head.

 _Ghivashel. Gêdel. Amrâlimê. Kurdel._ All of them spoken with pure, unadulterated love. 

He sits up slowly, peeling his eyes open. Surprisingly, Gandalf is still here, seated in the chair opposite him. He has a mug of tea cupped between his hands, but Bilbo doubts it contains any drugs or additives. It would seem the wizard also helped himself to a couple scones in the time he was asleep; Bilbo can deduce as much from the tell-tale crumbs lodged in his grey beard.

His eyes shine in the failing light. "Ah, Bilbo. You're finally awake." He sounds as if he's the one who's been inconvenienced, as if he hadn't been the cause of Bilbo's impromptu slumber. 

"Gandalf, may I ask why you drugged my tea?"

He starts at that. "Goodness, I didn't realize you had such a flair for the dramatic. I added something to help calm your mind and allow you to rest." 

"Really? And that's all it did?"

"Of course." Anyone with such a perfected innocent tone is someone who has spent much of their life being decidedly not innocent. 

"That's quite considerate of you," Bilbo says dryly, "but I would have preferred you told me first." 

Gandalf strokes a hand over his beard, considering. "It's quite likely you would have made a fuss if I had." 

"Yes! Well! I'm entirely entitled to make a fuss about whatever I wish, especially while in my own home." 

"I confess I'd hoped that a sufficient rest would have improved your mood, but I can see now that's not the case." 

Bilbo would like to see what mood Gandalf would be in if he'd been the one drugged. 

"Did it not go well?" Gandalf questions, this time with an underlying note of genuine concern. 

"It went fine," Bilbo grudgingly admits. 

Gandalf positively beams. "Splendid! I'm glad everything was resolved." 

There's not a whole lot he can say to that. "Yeah. Me too." 

“What is it you two do in these dreams of yours?” Gandalf asks, again with feigned innocence. Bilbo glares. _Nosy bastard._ His voice is so heavily laced with suggestion, he may as well outright ask if they're intimate with each other.

“We talk.” 

“Just talk?” Gandalf crooks a smile. 

Bilbo fixes him his most withering scowl. “If you must know, sometimes we sit together and enjoy the scenery. Or he watches me garden.” Bilbo fiddles with the blanket that Gandalf must have thrown over his lap at some point. “I also braided his hair once.” 

Gandalf chokes on his tea. Once his paroxysms of coughing abate, he turns fully to Bilbo. “You braided his hair.” 

“He asked me to!” Bilbo exclaims, indignant. Of course he would never act without express permission. He understands basic boundaries. 

“Hair is very significant to dwarves.” 

“I know.”

“Do you?” 

“Well, of course. Just as hobbits insult each other's feet, when they'd bicker on the journey they'd always insult each other's braids. Nori threatened to chop Dwalin's hair off once. I've never seen him get so mad.” 

Gandalf sighs fondly. “Oh, Bilbo.” 

“What?” he demands, squaring his shoulders. “Are you going to keep patronizing me or tell me what's going on?” 

“Dwarves rarely invite others to braid their hair. It's considered a very intimate act. And scalps are well-known to be an erogenous zone for them.” Gandalf's lips twitch around a poorly suppressed smile. “What if I were to tell you it's an act shared between lovers?” 

Bilbo fights valiantly to keep the smile off his own face. “I would tell you that's old news.” 

Gandalf grins smugly. “I see congratulations are in order!”

“For what? We’re not about to get married or start courting each other. There'd really be no point to it.”

“Only Thorin would procrastinate confessing his feelings until _after_ his death,” Gandalf chuckles.

“Well, better late than never.” 

“Indeed.” 

They meet each other's gazes. Bilbo bursts out laughing, struck by the sheer ridiculousness of it. He and Thorin shared their first kiss and confessed their feelings for one another _after_ one of them had died. It seems rather backwards. “It is kind of hilarious, isn't it?” 

“Oh, extremely," Gandalf chuckles. “Be sure to pass my regards on to Thorin.”

“We’ve actually already spoken about you. Thorin doesn't think you're very nice. Or trustworthy.”

Gandalf chokes out another laugh. “If I had any doubts over whether the Thorin in your dreams is the real one, I can safely say I no longer do.” 

"He hasn't changed, that's for sure." 

"I'm glad to hear it." Gandalf clambers to his feet. 

Bilbo glances at the window. Just like in his dream, the sun is setting. His stomach growls to remind him of all the meals it's missed. “Won't you stay for dinner?” Bilbo asks, remembering his manners.

“Another time.” Gandalf assures him. “I'm afraid yours isn't the only visit I'm to make tonight.” 

“Other hobbits to harass?” 

“Something like that.” His cryptic reply brings forth another smile to Bilbo’s lips. He hasn't smiled this much in a long time, not since the early days of their journey. He rubs his cheeks, the muscles sore from being stretched by wide smiles. It feels good. Pleasant. It's nice to have aching cheeks in place of an aching heart. 

"Well, even though I don't approve of your methods, I do appreciate your help." 

"I had a feeling you would." 

Bilbo escorts his old friend to the front door. "Just don't ever consider doing that again," he warns. 

Gandalf winks. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of it." 

 

* * *

Three months slip by.

In that time, Bilbo and Thorin explore the strange, liminal dreamworld they share together. Bilbo tries manipulating his dreams consciously, altering the landscape and modifying the state of the sky. Eventually he's able to choose which flowers sprout around them and can arrange the placement of the forests and meadows and rivers, instead of leaving it all up to his subconscious. He devotes much of his time to thinking up new flowers to introduce Thorin to, and each time the dwarf seems just as fascinated by plantlife he shows him. 

Bilbo and Thorin don't just explore the boundaries and limitations of Bilbo's dreams. They also explore each other. It's slow-going and tentative. Their relationship is still fragile, but they reach the point where they don't feel the need to ask to touch the other's hand, or solicit permission to plant kisses. Twining fingers together or kissing knuckles becomes second-nature. 

The bruise that grief has left on Bilbo's heart gradually lessens. When he catches snatches of his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he no longer sees bags beneath his eyes or a haggard quality to his expression. He also finds it an easier task to smile with each day that passes.

In the early hours of the day, Bilbo forces himself to do a bit more socializing with his neighbours, though at this point, the title of 'recluse' seems to permanently hang over his head. He finds he doesn't particularly mind. He's never been the most conventional of hobbits, and he is content with solitude. 

In the evenings, he cloisters himself in his study and works on his books—the one detailing the grand adventure to the Lonely Mountain, and his private account of Thorin and the relationship they share. The latter occupies most of his attention, if only because he has motivation for finishing it. 

(" _I'm writing something I'd like you to eventually read."_

_"What is it?"_

_"You'll see."_

_"Don't leave me in suspense, Master Burglar."_

_"Bilbo," he corrects for the umpteenth time. "And just for that I'm going to make you wait even longer."_ ) 

After a cold and rainy evening, Bilbo puts down his quill, finally satisfied with the contents of the blue-bound book. He falls asleep thinking about well-loved, dog-eared pages and a pair of blue eyes. 

Thorin waits for him that night at their usual spot by the stream. Red chrysanthemums bloom all around him. Bilbo sidles up to him, before settling down on the soft grass. It's warm and comforting against Thorin's side. Bilbo snuggles even closer. 

"There's something I'd like you to read," he says by way of greeting. 

Thorin cranes his neck to look at him. "Is it your book?"

"It's... one of them." 

"I had not realized you were writing more than one." 

"Well, I'm working on the written account of our quest, but this book is different. It's a bit more personal." 

His eyes flutter shut. He conjure's it in his mind's eye, willing it to appear before them now. Manipulating dreams isn't an easy or simple task, and requires every ounce of concentration he possesses. He focuses on the colour of the blue binding, on the texture of the paper, and on the faint odour of the ink. The solid heft of the book appears in his hands. 

He opens his eyes. Thorin stares questioningly at the book. He hands it to him carefully. 

"It's not exactly a book," Bilbo adds, his heart speeding up. "It's closer to a novella in length. And it's a bit silly. I found I had a lot of thoughts I wanted to get out, and putting it to paper helped, and well, here we are." He gives a nervous laugh, but Thorin is too absorbed to notice. 

The dwarf's long tresses fall into his face as he cracks open the book. He stays on the first page for a long time. Bilbo wonders if Thorin's able to understand any of what he's written. The dwarf may be able to speak Westeron, but reading a language is an entirely different matter. From the expression on his face, however, Bilbo suspects he can decipher the words just fine. 

Thorin's eyes flicker back and forth again and again, re-reading the same few lines. "Oh, Bilbo," he breathes. "Is this truly how you see me?" 

Bilbo peers over his shoulder. "As aggravating, rude, short-tempered, and infuriating?" He pokes Thorin's shin with his foot teasingly. "I thought that much was already obvious." 

His eyes are wide, disbelieving. When he speaks, his voice is choked with emotion. "You love me." 

Bilbo's lips curl into a fond smile. "Mm, I do." He doesn't know how it's possible, but he loves Thorin more each time he sees him. It's an inferno, a conflagration in his chest, rapidly growing until it threatens to consume him. 

Thorin places the book gently beside him. "I'm going to kiss you now, Bilbo Baggins." 

He certainly has no complaints to that. Thorin leans in, and he meets him halfway. Their lips slot together perfectly. Thorin's lips are warm and soft, and tender in their treatment of Bilbo's.

His eyes slowly slip shut. He drapes his arm over the silky material of Thorin's waistcoat, before lifting his fingers higher. He dips his hand under the fabric of Thorin's shirt, and rests his palm against his bare chest. He measures the cadence of Thorin's pounding heart. It's irregular and fast, rivaling his own. 

Thorin's tongue brushes against his lips. It's only there for a fraction of a second, but it makes Bilbo kiss back harder. He opens his mouth against Thorin's, encouraging him to do the same. The kiss turns hotter, rougher. Thorin takes Bilbo's lower lip between his teeth and gently tugs, before releasing his hold to slip his tongue inside his mouth.

Slow syrupy pleasure pools low in Bilbo's stomach, and a frisson of excitement travels down his spine. He exhales hard through his nose, trailing his hands up Thorin's body before winding his fingers in his hair. He thinks back to Gandalf's words, about how scalps are an erogenous zone for dwarves. He scrapes his blunt nails through Thorin's inky mane, and earns a low rumble of approval. 

Thorin is the paragon of comeliness, a seasoned warrior, and royalty to boot. Bilbo's not entirely sure what he sees in a soft-bellied hobbit like himself, but it's quite a boost to his own ego that he's able to leave him panting and desperate. 

Their lips pull apart, and Thorin presses his forehead to Bilbo's, taking a moment to catch his breath. There's something so intimate about the closeness in having their foreheads touch and their breaths mingle. Bilbo loves him so much. Even though he knows it's all happening within a dream, it almost feels too good to be true.

“Thorin?” Bilbo asks softly. Thorin stills against him. “What happens when I die?”

The thought has plagued him for some time, but he's been too afraid to confront it. However this closeness, this intimacy between them fills him with an unprecedented confidence. With Thorin by his side, he feels as though he can conquer anything. 

“You'll move on to the afterlife.” 

His heart races, but this time from anxiety instead of arousal. Is it odd to feel such conflicting emotions? To feel brave and utterly terrified at once? He speaks again. “I mean, what happens to us? If you can only visit me in my dreams, what will happen?” He clutches Thorin’s face between his hands. “The dead don’t dream, Thorin. How will I see you?”

“I do not know,” Thorin confesses. “But if I must build a door or a bridge between our afterworlds, I will. I will do whatever it takes and not even Mahal himself could stop me. Our love has already defied death,” he reminds him. 

Bilbo knocks their lips together once more. Thorin falls back on the grass, and Bilbo is quick to follow. Their legs twine together and they continue to explore and caress until Bilbo's not sure where he ends and Thorin begins. They shed their clothes and wrap their arms around each other. Their bodies blur, pressing ever closer, as near and connected as two souls can possibly be. 

* * *

Years later, Bilbo continues to convene with his dwarf lover while he sleeps.

He does not know how to explain to his dear nephew Frodo why he oft wakes up with tears already pooling in his eyes. He does not have an explanation for the pang in his heart whenever he sees new flowers sprouting in his garden, particularly ones the colour blue. The simplest things stir a bittersweet ache in his chest, from the sight of acorns in his garden to the glimmer of mithril in his dresser. 

When he was young, barely more than a faunt, the other hobbits teasingly labeled him as a dreamer. It was an apt moniker. He spent much of his time inventing adventures and quests in his mind; epic, heroic battles that would somehow have need of a small and unassuming hobbit like himself.

He still dreams now, but not of adventures. He has already had enough of those for a lifetime, thank you very much. 

Now he dreams of sturdy arms and large, delicate hands, of a brilliant smile and a pair of bright blue eyes. He dreams of gentle, rumbling laughter and loving caresses. And each night that same dream is waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! And thanks to everyone who's left kudos and/or comments.


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